THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 

FOR  THE 
ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


THE  FOUR  MILLION 


£ 

R 

O 


THE 
FOUR  MILLION 


BY 
O.   HENRY 

Author  of  "  The  Voice  of  the  City,"  "  The  Trimmed 

Lamp,"  "Strictly  Business,"  "Whirligigs" 

"Sixes  and  Sevens"  Etc. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

DOUBLEDAY.  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

FOR 

REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS  CO. 
1916 


Acknotdedgment  is  made  to  The  New  York  World, 
The  Smart   Set,    and  McClure's   Magazine, 
for  permission  to  republish  these 


Copyright,   1906,  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 


Copyright,  1905,  by  Press  Publishing:  Company 
Copyright.  190S-1905,  by  S.  S.  McClure  Company 
Copyright,  1902,  by  Ess  Ess  Publishing  Company 


Not  very  long  ago  some  one  vwvented  the  assertion 
that  there  were  only  "  Four  Hundred  "  people  in  New 
York  City  who  were  really  worth  noticing.  But  a 
wiser  man  has  arisen  —  the  census  taker  —  and  his 
larger  estimate  of  human  interest  has  been  preferred 
in  markmg  out  the  field  of  these  little  stories  of  the 
"  Four  Million." 


CONTENTS 

PAGM 

TOBIN'S  PALM ».,.,.,    ,.,     .       S 

THE  GIFT  OP  THE  MAGI  ...,.,     ,.;     .      .,     ;.      16 
A  COSMOPOLITE  IN  A  CAFE    .........     26 

BETWEEN  ROUNDS ,     .     ...     .,     .     ...     .     36 

THE  SKYLIGHT  ROOM 47 

A  SERVICE  OF  LOVE    .      .      .      .      .      •     •      .      .     58 
THE   COMING-OUT  OF  MAGGIE    ......     69 

MAN   ABOUT   TOWN 82 

THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM  .,     .      ...      .      .      .90 

AN  ADJUSTMENT  OF  NATURE 101 

MEMOIRS  OF  A  YELLOW  DOG  . 110 

THE  LOVE-PHILTRE  OF  IKEY  SCHOENSTEIN  .      .      .119 

MAMMON  AND  THE  ARCHER  .  128 

SPRINGTIME  A  LA  CARTE  .      ....      .      .      .      .140 

THE  GREEN   DOOR 151 

FROM   THE   CABBY'S   SEAT      .......   165 

AN  UNFINISHED   STORY 174 

THE  CALIPH,  CUPID  AND  THE  CLOCK   .      .      .      .186 
SISTERS  OF  THE  GOLDEN  CIRCLE  :.,     •„     .   197 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  BUSY  BROKER  .,     .      .      .,     .  208 


Contents 

AFTER   TWENTY  YEARS 215 

LOST  ON  DRESS  PARADE  ,      .      .      v     .      .      .      .221 
BY   COURIER     .............  232 

THE  FURNISHED  ROOM ;     .  239 

THE  BRIEF  DEBUT  OF  TILDT     •     *     *     «  .251 


THE  FOUR  MILLION 


TOBIN'S  PALM 

lOBIN  and  me,  the  two  of  us,  went  down  to  Coney 
one  day,  for  there  was  four  dollars  between  us, 
and  Tobin  had  need  of  distractions.  For  there  was 
Katie  Mahorner,  his  sweetheart,  of  County  Sligo, 
lost  since  she  started  for  America  three  months  before 
with  two  hundred  dollars,  her  own  savings,  and  one 
hundred  dollars  from  the  sale  of  Tobin's  inherited 
estate,  a  fine  cottage  and  pig  on  the  Bog  Shannaugh. 
And  since  the  letter  that  Tobin  got  saying  that  she 
had  started  to  come  to  him  not  a  bit  of  news  had  he 
heard  or  seen  of  Katie  Mahorner.  Tobin  advertised 
in  the  papers,  but  nothing  could  be  found  of  the  col 
leen. 

So,  to  Coney  me  and  Tobin  went,  thinking  that  a 
turn  at  the  chutes  and  the  smell  of  the  popcorn  might 
raise  the  heart  in  his  bosom.  But  Tobin  was  a  hard- 
headed  man,  and  the  sadness  stuck  in  his  skin.  He 
ground  his  teeth  at  the  crying  balloons;  he  cursed 
the  moving  pictures;  and,  though  he  would  drink 
whenever  asked,  he  scorned  Punch  and  Judy,  and  was 
for  licking  the  tintype  men  as  they  came. 


4  The  Four  Million 

So  I  gets  him  down  a  side  way  on  a  board  walk 
where  the  attractions  were  some  less  violent.  At  a 
little  six  by  eight  stall  Tobin  halts,  with  a  more 
human  look  in  his  eye. 

"  'Tis  here,"  says  he,  « I  will  be  diverted.  I'll 
have  the  palm  of  me  hand  investigated  by  the  wonder 
ful  palmist  of  the  Nile,  and  see  if  what  is  to  be 
will  be." 

Tobin  was  a  believer  in  signs  and  the  unnatural  in 
nature.  He  possessed  illegal  convictions  in  his  mind 
along  the  subjects  of  black  cats,  lucky  numbers,  and 
the  weather  predictions  in  the  papers. 

We  went  into  the  enchanted  chicken  coop,  which 
was  fixed  mysterious  with  red  cloth  and  pictures  of 
hands  with  lines  crossing  'em  like  a  railroad  centre. 
The  sign  o^er  the  door  says  it  is  Madame  Zozo  the 
Egyptian  Palmist.  There  was  a  fat  woman  inside 
in  a  red  jumper  with  pothooks  and  beasties  embroid 
ered  upon  it.  Tobin  gives  her  ten  cents  and  extends 
one  of  his  hands.  She  lifts  Tobin's  hand,  which  is 
own  brother  to  the  hoof  of  a  drayhorse,  and  examines 
it  to  see  whether  'tis  a  stone  in  the  frog  or  a  cast 
shoe  he  has  come  for. 

"  Man,"  says  this  Madame  Zozo,  "  the  line  of  your 
fate  shows  — " 

"  'Tis  not  me  foot  at  all,"  says  Tobin,  interrupt 


Tobin's  Palm  5 

ing.  "  Sure,  'tis  no  beauty,  but  ye  hold  the  palm  of 
me  hand." 

"  The  line  shows,'*  says  th«  Madame,  "  that  ye've 
not  arrived  at  your  time  of  life  without  bad  luck. 
And  there's  more  to  come.  The  mount  of  Venus  — 
or  is  that  a  stone  bruise  ?  —  shows  that  ye've  been  in 
love.  There's  been  trouble  in  your  life  on  account  of 
your  sweetheart." 

"  'Tis  Katie  Mahorner  she  has  references  with," 
whispers  Tobin  to  me  in  a  loud  voice  to  one  side. 

"  I  see,"  says  the  palmist,  "  a  great  deal  of  sor 
row  and  tribulation  with  one  whom  ye  cannot  forget. 
I  see  the  lines  of  designation  point  to  the  letter  K  and 
the  letter  M  in  her  name." 

"  Whist !  "  says  Tobin  to  me ;  "  do  ye  hear  that?  " 

"  Look  out,"  goes  on  the  palmist,  "  for  a  dark  man 
and  a  light  woman ;  for  they'll  both  bring  ye  trouble. 
Ye'll  make  a  voyage  upon  the  water  very  soon,  and 
have  a  financial  loss.  I  see  one  line  that  brings  good 
luck.  There's  a  man  coming  into  your  life  who  will 
fetch  ye  good  fortune.  Ye'll  know  him  when  ye  see 
him  by  his  crooked  nose." 

"  Is  his  name  set  down  ?  "  asks  Tobin.  "  'Twill  be 
convenient  in  the  way  of  greeting  when  he  backs  up 
to  dump  off  the  good  luck." 

"  His  name,"  says  the  palmist,  thoughtful  looking, 


6  The  Four  Million 

"  is  not  spelled  out  by  the  lines,  but  they  indicate 
'tis  a  long  one,  and  the  letter  '  o  *  should  be  in  it. 
There's  no  more  to  tell.  Good-evening.  Don't  block 
up  the  door." 

"  'Tis  wonderful  how  she  knows,"  says  Tobin  as 
we  walk  to  the  pier. 

As  we  squeezed  through  the  gates  a  nigger  man 
sticks  his  lighted  segar  against  Tobin's  ear,  and 
there  is  trouble.  Tobin  hammers  his  neck,  and  the 
women  squeal,  and  by  presence  of  mind  I  drag  the 
little  man  out  of  the  way  before  the  police  comes. 
Tobin  is  always  in  an  ugly  mood  when  enjoying  him 
self. 

On  the  boat  going  back,  when  the  man  calls  "  Who 
wants  the  good-looking  waiter  ?  "  Tobin  tried  to  plead 
guilty,  feeling  the  desire  to  blow  the  foam  off  a 
crock  of  suds,  but  when  he  felt  in  his  pocket  he  found 
himself  discharged  for  lack  of  evidence.  Somebody 
had  disturbed  his  change  during  the  commotion.  So 
we  sat,  dry,  upon  the  stools,  listening  to  the  Dagoes 
fiddling  on  deck.  If  anything,  Tobin  was  lower  in 
spirits  and  less  congenial  with  his  misfortunes  than 
when  we  started. 

On  a  seat  against  the  railing  was  a  young  woman 
dressed  suitable  for  red  automobiles,  with  hair  the 
colour  of  an  unsmoked  meerschaum.  In  passing  by, 


Tobin's  Palm  7 

Tobin  kicks  her  foot  without  intentions,  and,  being 
polite  to  ladies  when  in  drink,  he  tries  to  give  his  hat 
a  twist  while  apologising.  But  he  knocks  it  off,  and 
the  wind  carries  it  overboard. 

Tobin  came  back  and  sat  down,  and  I  began  to 
look  out  for  him,  for  the  man's  adversities  were  be 
coming  frequent.  He  was  apt,  when  pushed  so  close 
by  hard  luck,  to  kick  the  best  dressed  man  he  could 
see,  and  try  to  take  command  of  the  boat. 

Presently  Tobin  grabs  my  arm  and  says,  excited: 
"  Jawn,"  says  he,  "do  ye  know  what  we're  doing? 
We're  taking  a  voyage  upon  the  water.'* 

"  There  now,"  says  I ;  "  subdue  yeself .  The  boat'll 
land  in  ten  minutes  more." 

"  Look,"  says  he,  "  at  the  light  lady  upon  the 
bench.  And  have  ye  forgotten  the  nigger  man  that 
burned  me  ear?  And  isn't  the  money  I  had  gone  — 
a  dollar  sixty-five  it  was  ?  " 

I  thought  he  was  no  more  than  summing  up  his 
catastrophes  so  as  to  get  violent  with  good  excuse, 
as  men  will  do,  and  I  tried  to  make  him  understand 
such  things  was  trifles. 

"  Listen,"  says  Tobin.  "  Ye've  no  ear  for  the  gift 
of  prophecy  or  the  miracles  of  the  inspired.  What 
did  the  palmist  lady  tell  ye  out  of  me  hand?  'Tis 
coming  true  before  your  eyes.  '  Look  out,'  says  she, 


8  The  Four  Million 

6  for  a  dark  man  and  a  light  woman ;  they'll  bring  ye 
trouble.'  Have  ye  forgot  the  nigger  man,  though 
he  got  some  of  it  back  from  me  fist?  Can  ye  show 
me  a  lighter  woman  than  the  blonde  lady  that  was 
the  cause  of  me  hat  falling  in  the  water?  And 
where' s  the  dollar  sixty-five  I  had  in  me  vest  when  we 
left  the  shooting  gallery  ?  " 

The  way  Tobin  put  it,  it  did  seem  to  corroborate 
the  art  of  prediction,  though  it  looked  to  me  that 
these  accidents  could  happen  to  any  one  at  Coney 
without  the  implication  of  palmistry. 

Tobin  got  up  and  walked  around  on  deck,  looking 
close  at  the  passengers  out  of  his  little  red  eyes.  I 
asked  him  the  interpretation  of  his  movements.  Ye 
never  know  what  Tobin  has  in  his  mind  until  he  be 
gins  to  carry  it  out. 

"  Ye  should  know,"  says  he,  "  I'm  working  out  the 
salvation  promised  by  the  lines  in  me  palm.  I'm  look 
ing  for  the  crooked-nose  man  that's  to  bring  the  good 
luck.  'Tis  all  that  will  save  us.  Jawn,  did  ye  ever 
see  a  straighter-nosed  gang  of  hellions  in  the  days  of 
your  life  ?  " 

'Twas  the  nine-thirty  boat,  and  we  landed  and 
walked  up-town  through  Twenty-second  Street,  Tobin 
being  without  his  hat. 

On  a  street  corner,  standing  under  a  gas-light  and 


Tobin's  Palm  9 

looking  over  the  elevated  road  at  the  moon,  was  a 
man.  A  long  man  he  was,  dressed  decent,  with  a 
segar  between  his  teeth,  and  I  saw  that  his  nose  made 
two  twists  from  bridge  to  end,  like  the  wriggle  of  a 
snake.  Tobin  saw  it  at  the  same  time,  and  I  heard 
him  breathe  hard  like  a  horse  when  you  take  the  sad 
dle  off.  He  went  straight  up  to  the  man,  and  I  went 
with  him. 

'*  Good-night  to  ye,"  Tobin  says  to  the  man.  The 
man  takes  out  his  segar  and  passes  the  compliments, 
sociable. 

*'  Would  ye  hand  us  your  name,"  asks  Tobin, 
"  and  let  us  look  at  the  size  of  it?  It  may  be  our 
duty  to  become  acquainted  with  ye." 

"  My  name,"  says  the  man,  polite,  "  is  Frieden- 
hausman  • —  Maximus  G.  Friedenhausman." 

"  'Tis  the  right  length,"  says  Tobin.  "  Do  you 
spell  it  with  an  '  o  '  anywhere  down  the  stretch  of 
it?" 

"  I  do  not,"  says  the  man. 

"Can  ye  spell  it  with  an  *o5?"  inquires  Tobin, 
turning  anxious. 

"  If  your  conscience,"  says  the  man  with  the  nose, 
"  is  indisposed  toward  foreign  idioms  ye  might,  to 
please  yourself,  smuggle  the  letter  into  the  penulti 
mate  syllable." 


10  The  Four  Million 

"  'Tis  well,"  says  Tobin.  "  Ye're  in  the  presence 
of  Jawn  Malone  and  Daniel  Tobin." 

"  'Tis  highly  appreciated,"  says  the  man,  with  a 
bow.  "  And  now  since  I  cannot  conceive  that  ye 
would  hold  a  spelling  bee  upon  the  street  corner,  will 
ye  name  some  reasonable  excuse  for  being  at  large?  " 

"  By  the  two  signs,"  answers  Tobin,  trying  to  ex 
plain,  "  which  ye  display  according  to  the  reading  of 
the  Egyptian  palmist  from  the  sole  of  me  hand,  ye've 
been  nominated  to  offset  with  good  luck  the  lines  of 
trouble  leading  to  the  nigger  man  and  the  blonde  lady 
with  her  feet  crossed  in  the  boat,  besides  the  financial 
loss  of  a  dollar  sixty-five,  all  so  far  fulfilled  accord 
ing  to  Hoyle." 

The  man  stopped  smoking  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Have  ye  any  amendments,"  he  asks,  "  to  offer  to 
that  statement,  or  are  ye  one  too?  I  thought  by  the 
looks  of  ye  ye  might  have  him  in  charge." 

"  None,"  says  I  to  him,  "  except  that  as  one  horse 
shoe  resembles  another  so  are  ye  the  picture  of  good 
luck  as  predicted  by  the  hand  of  me  friend.  If  not, 
then  the  lines  of  Danny's  hand  may  have  been  crossed, 
I  don't  know." 

"  There's  two  of  ye,"  says  the  man  with  the  nose, 
looking  up  and  down  for  the  sight  of  a  policeman. 
"  I've  enjoyed  your  company  immense.  Good-night." 


Tobin's  Palm  11 

With  that  he  shoves  his  segar  in  his  mouth  and 
moves  across  the  street,  stepping  fast.  But  Tobin 
sticks  close  to  one  side  of  him  and  me  at  the  other. 

"  What ! "  says  he,  stopping  on  the  opposite  side 
walk  and  pushing  back  his  hat;  "do  ye  follow  me? 
I  tell  ye,"  he  says,  very  loud,  "  I'm  proud  to  have 
met  ye.  But  it  is  my  desire  to  be  rid  of  ye.  I  am 
off  to  me  home." 

"  Do,"  says  Tobin,  leaning  against  his  sleeve. 
"  Do  be  off  to  your  home.  And  I  will  sit  at  the  door 
of  it  till  ye  come  out  in  the  morning.  For  the  de 
pendence  is  upon  ye  to  obviate  the  curse  of  the  nigger 
man  and  the  blonde  lady  and  the  financial  loss  of  the 
one-sixty-five." 

"  'Tis  a  strange  hallucination,"  says  the  man,  turn 
ing  to  me  as  a  more  reasonable  lunatic.  "  Hadn't 
ye  better  get  him  home  ?  " 

"  Listen,  man,"  says  I  to  him.  "  Daniel  Tobin  is 
as  sensible  as  he  ever  was.  Maybe  he  is  a  bit  de 
ranged  on  account  of  having  drink  enough  to  disturb 
but  not  enough  to  settle  his  wits,  but  he  is  no  more 
than  following  out  the  legitimate  path  of  his  super 
stitions  and  predicaments,  which  I  will  explain  to 
you."  With  that  I  relates  the  facts  about  the  palmist 
lady  and  how  the  finger  of  suspicion  points  to  him  as 
an  instrument  of  good  fortune.  "  Now,  understand," 


12  The  Four  Million 

I  concludes,  "  my  position  in  this  riot.  I  am  the 
friend  of  me  friend  Tobin,  according  to  me  interpre 
tations.  'Tis  easy  to  be  a  friend  to  the  prosperous, 
for  it  pays ;  'tis  not  hard  to  be  a  friend  to  the  poor, 
for  ye  get  puffed  up  by  gratitude  and  have  your  pic 
ture  printed  standing  in  front  of  a  tenement  with  a 
scuttle  of  coal  and  an  orphan  in  each  hand.  But  it 
strains  the  art  of  friendship  to  be  true  friend  to  a 
born  fool.  And  that's  what  I'm  doing,"  says  I,  "  for, 
in  my  opinion,  there's  no  fortune  to  be  read  from  the 
palm  of  me  hand  that  wasn't  printed  there  with  the 
handle  of  a  pick.  And,  though  ye've  got  the  crook- 
edest  nose  in  New  York  City,  I  misdoubt  that  all  the 
fortune-tellers  doing  business  could  milk  good  luck 
from  ye.  But  the  lines  of  Danny's  hand  pointed  to 
ye  fair,  and  I'll  assist  him  to  experiment  with  ye  un 
til  he's  convinced  ye're  dry." 

After  that  the  man  turns,  sudden,  to  laughing. 
He  leans  against  a  corner  and  laughs  considerable. 
Then  he  claps  me  and  Tobin  on  the  backs  of  us  and 
takes  us  by  an  arm  apiece. 

"  'Tis  my  mistake,"  says  he.  "  How  could  I  be 
expecting  anything  so  fine  and  wonderful  to  be  turn 
ing  the  corner  upon  me?  I  came  near  being  found 
unworthy.  Hard  by,"  says  he,  "  is  a  cafe,  snug  and 
suitable  for  the  entertainment  of  idiosyncrasies.  iCet 


Tobin  s  Palm  13 

us  go  there  and  have  drink  while  we  discuss  the  un 
availability  of  the  categorical." 

So  saying,  he  marched  me  and  Tobin  to  the  back 
room  of  a  saloon,  and  ordered  the  drinks,  and  laid  the 
money  on  the  table.  He  looks  at  me  and  Tobin  like 
brothers  of  his,  and  we  have  the  segars. 

"  Ye  must  know,"  says  the  man  of  destiny,  "  that 
me  walk  in  life  is  one  that  is  called  the  literary.  I 
wander  abroad  be  night  seeking  idiosyncrasies  in  the 
masses  and  truth  in  the  heavens  above.  When  ye 
came  upon  me  I  was  in  contemplation  of  the  elevated 
road  in  conjunction  with  the  chief  luminary  of  night. 
The  rapid  transit  is  poetry  and  art:  the  moon  but 
a  tedious,  dry  body,  moving  by  rote.  But  these  are 
private  opinions,  for,  in  the  business  of  literature,  the 
conditions  are  reversed.  Tis  me  hope  to  be  writing 
a  book  to  explain  the  strange  things  I  have  discov 
ered  in  life." 

"  Ye  will  put  me  in  a  book,"  says  Tobin,  disgusted ; 
"  will  ye  put  me  in  a  book?  " 

"  I  will  not,"  says  the  man,  "  for  the  covers  will 
not  hold  ye.  Not  yet.  The  best  I  can  do  is  to  enjoy 
ye  meself ,  for  the  time  is  not  ripe  for  destroying  \the 
limitations  of  print.  Ye  would  look  fantastic  in 
type.  All  alone  by  meself  must  I  drink  this  cup  of 
joy.  But,  I  thank  ye,  boys;  I  am  truly  grateful.'* 


14  The  Four  MilUon 

"  The  talk  of  ye,"  says  Tobin,  blowing  through  his 
moustache  and  pounding  the  table  with  his  fist,  "  is  an 
eyesore  to  me  patience.  There  was  good  luck  prom 
ised  out  of  the  crook  of  your  nose,  but  ye  bear  fruit 
like  the  bang  of  a  drum.  Ye  resemble,  with  your 
noise  of  books,  the  wind  blowing  through  a  crack. 
Sure,  now,  I  would  be  thinking  the  palm  of  me  hand 
lied  but  for  the  coming  true  of  the  nigger  man  and 
the  blonde  lady  and — " 

"  Whist ! "  says  the  long  man ;  "  would  ye  be  led 
astray  by  physiognomy?  Me  nose  will  do  what  it 
can  within  bounds.  Let  us  have  these  glasses  filled 
again,  for  'tis  good  to  keep  idiosyncrasies  well  mois 
tened,  they  being  subject  to  deterioration  in  a  dry 
moral  atmosphere." 

So,  the  man  of  literature  makes  good,  to  my  no 
tion,  for  he  pays,  cheerful,  for  everything,  the  cap 
ital  of  me  and  Tobin  being  exhausted  by  prediction. 
But  Tobin  is  sore,  and  drinks  quiet,  with  the  red 
showing  in  his  eye. 

By  and  by  we  moved  out,  for  'twas  eleven  o'clock, 
and  stands  a  bit  upon  the  sidewalk.  And  then  the 
man  says  he  must  be  going  home,  and  invites  me  and 
Tobin  to  walk  that  way.  We  arrives  on  a  side  street 
two  blocks  away  where  there  is  a  stretch  of  brick 
houses  with  high  stoops  and  iron  fences.  The  man 


Tobins  Palm  15 

stops  at  one  of  them  and  looks  up  at  the  top  windows 
which  he  finds  dark. 

"  'Tis  me  humble  dwelling,"  says  he,  "  and  I  begin 
to  perceive  by  the  signs  that  me  wife  has  retired  to 
slumber.  Therefore  I  will  venture  a  bit  in  the  way 
of  hospitality.  'Tis  me  wish  that  ye  enter  the 'base 
ment  room,  where  we  dine,  and  partake  of  a  reason 
able  refreshment.  There  will  be  some  fine  cold  fowl 
and  cheese  and  a  bottle  or  two  of  ale.  Ye  will  be 
welcome  to  enter  and  eat,  for  I  am  indebted  to  ye  for 
diversions." 

The  appetite  and  conscience  of  me  and  Tobin  was 
congenial  to  the  proposition,  though  'twas  sticking 
hard  in  Danny's  superstitions  to  think  that  a  few 
drinks  and  a  cold  lunch  should  represent  the  good 
fortune  promised  by  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"  Step  down  the  steps,"  says  the  man  with  the 
crooked  nose,  "  and  I  will  enter  by  the  door  above 
and  let  ye  in.  I  will  ask  the  new  girl  we  have  in  the 
kitchen,"  says  he,  "  to  make  ye  a  pot  of  coffee  to 
drink  before  ye  go.  'Tis  fine  coffee  Katie  Mahorner 
makes  for  a  green  girl  just  landed  three  months. 
Step  in,"  says  the  man,  "  and  I'll  send  her  down  to 
ye." 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  MAGI 

ONE  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents.  That  was  alL 
And  sixty  cents  of  it  was  in  pennies.  Pennies  saved 
one  and  two  at  a  time  by  bulldozing  the  grocer  and 
the  vegetable  man  and  the  butcher  until  one's  cheeks 
burned  with  the  silent  imputation  of  parsimony  that 
such  close  dealing  implied.  Three  times  Delia 
counted  it.  One  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents.  And 
the  next  day  would  be  Christmas. 

There  was  clearly  nothing  to  do  but  flop  down  OH 
the  shabby  little  couch  and  howl.  So  Delia  did  it. 
Which  instigates  the  moral  reflection  that  life  is 
made  up  of  sobs,  sniffles,  and  smiles,  with  sniffles  pre 
dominating. 

While  the  mistress  of  the  home  is  gradually  sub 
siding  from  the  first  stage  to  the  second,  take  a  look 
at  the  home.  A  furnished  flat  at  $8  per  week.  It 
did  not  exactly  beggar  description,  but  it  certainly 
had  that  word  on  the  lookout  for  the  mendicancy 
squad 

In  the  vestibule  below  was  a  letter-box  into  which 

«o  letter  would  go,  and  an  electric  button  from  which 

16 


The  Gift  of  the  Magi  17 

flo  mortal  finger  could  coax  a  ring.  Also  appertain 
ing  thereunto  was  a  card  bearing  the  name  "  Mr. 
James  Dillingham  Young." 

The  "  Dillingham  "  had  been  flung  to  the  breeze 
during  a  former  period  of  prosperity  when  its  pos 
sessor  was  being  paid  $30  per  week.  Now,  when  the 
income  was  shrunk  to  $20,  the  letters  of  "  Dilling 
ham  "  looked  blurred,  as  though  they  were  thinking 
seriously  of  contracting  to  a  modest  and  unassuming 
D.  But  whenever  Mr.  Jamei  Dillingham  Young 
came  home  and  reached  his  flat  above  he  was  called 
"  Jim  "  and  greatly  hugged  by  Mrs.  James  Dilling 
ham  Young,  already  introduced  to  you  as  Delia. 
Which  is  all  very  good. 

Delia  finished  her  cry  and  attended  to  her  cheeks 
with  the  powder  rag.  She  stood  by  the  window  and 
looked  out  dully  at  a  grey  cat  walking  a  grey  fence 
in  a  grey  backyard.  To-morrow  would  be  Christ 
mas  Day,  and  she  had  only  $1.87  with  which  to  buy 
Jim  a  present.  She  had  been  saving  every  penny 
she  could  for  months,  with  this  result.  Twenty  dol 
lars  a  week  doesn't  go  far.  Expenses  had  been 
greater  than  she  had  calculated.  They  always  are. 
Only  $1.87  to  buy  a  present  for  Jim.  Her  Jim. 
Many  a  happy  hour  she  had  spent  planning  for  some 
thing  nice  for  him.  Something  fine  and  rare  and 


18  The  Four  Million 

sterling  —  something  just  a  little  bit  near  to  being 
worthy  of  the  honour  of  being  owned  bj  Jim. 

There  was  a  pier-glass  between  the  windows  of  the 
room.  Perhaps  you  have  seen  a  pier-glass  in  an  $8 
flat.  A  very  thin  and  very  agile  person  may,  by 
observing  his  reflection  in  a  rapid  sequence  of  longi 
tudinal  strips,  obtain  a  fairly  accurate  conception  of 
his  looks.  Delia,  being  slender,  had  mastered  the 
art. 

Suddenly  she  whirled  from  the  window  and  stood 
before  the  glass.  Her  eyes  were  shining  brilliantly, 
but  her  face  had  lost  its  colour  within  twenty  sec 
onds.  Rapidly  she  pulled  down  her  hair  and  let  it 
fall  to  its  full  length. 

Now,  there  were  two  possessions  of  the  James  Dil- 
lingham  Youngs  in  which  they  both  took  a  mighty 
pride.  One  was  Jim's  gold  watch  that  had  been  his 
father's  and  his  grandfather's.  The  other  was  Del- 
la's  hair.  Had  the  Queen  of  Sheba  lived  in  the  flat 
across  the  airshaft,  Delia  would  have  let  her  hair 
hang  out  the  window  some  day  to  dry  just  to  de 
preciate  Her  Majesty's  jewels  and  gifts.  Had  King 
Solomon  been  the  janitor,  with  all  his  treasures  piled 
up  in  the  basement,  Jim  would  have  pulled  out  his 
watch  every  time  he  passed,  just  to  see  him  pluck  at 
his  beard  from  envy. 


The  Gift  of  the  Magi  19 

So  now  Delia's  beautiful  hair  fell  about  her,  rip 
pling  and  shining  like  a  cascade  of  brown  waters. 
It  reached  below  her  knee  and  made  itself  almost  a 
garment  for  her.  And  then  she  did  it  up  again  nerv 
ously  and  quickly.  Once  she  faltered  for  a  minute 
and  stood  still  while  a  tear  or  two  splashed  on  the 
worn  red  carpet. 

On  went  her  old  brown  jacket;  on  went  her  old 
brown  hat.  With  a  whirl  of  skirts  and  with  the  bril 
liant  sparkle  still  in  her  eyes,  she  fluttered  out  the 
door  and  down  the  stairs  to  the  street. 

Where  she  stopped  the  sign  read :  "  Mme.  So- 
fronie.  Hair  Goods  of  All  Kinds."  One  flight  up 
Delia  ran,  and  collected  herself,  panting.  Madame, 
large,  too  white,  chilly,  hardly  looked  the  "  So- 
fronie." 

"  Will  you  buy  my  hair?  "  asked  Delia. 

"  I  buy  hair,"  said  Madame.  "  Take  yer  hat  off 
and  let's  have  a  sight  at  the  looks  of  it." 

Down  rippled  the  brown  cascade. 

"  Twenty  dollars,"  said  Madame,  lifting  the  mass 
with  a  practised  hand. 

"  Give  it  to  me  quick,"  said  Delia. 

Oh,  and  the  next  two  hours  tripped  by  on  rosy 
wings.  Forget  the  hashed  metaphor.  She  was  ran 
sacking  the  stores  for  Jim's  present. 


20  The  Four  Million 

She  found  it  at  last.  It  surely  had  been  made  for 
Jim  and  no  one  else.  There  was  no  other  like  it 
in  any  of  the  stores,  and  she  had  turned  all  of  them 
inside  out.  It  was  a  platinum  fob  chain  simple  and 
chaste  in  design,  properly  proclaiming  its  value  by 
substance  alone  and  not  by  meretricious  ornamenta 
tion  —  as  all  good  things  should  do.  It  was  even 
worthy  of  The  Watch.  As  soon  as  she  saw  it  she 
knew  that  it  must  be  Jim's.  It  was  like  him.  Quiet 
ness  and  value  —  the  description  applied  to  both. 
Twenty-one  dollars  they  took  from  her  for  it,  and 
she  hurried  home  with  the  87  cents.  With  that  chain 
on  his  watch  Jim  might  be  properly  anxious  about 
the  time  in  any  company.  Grand  as  the  watch  was, 
he  sometimes  looked  at  it  on  the  sly  on  account  of 
the  old  leather  strap  that  he  used  in  place  of  a  chain. 

When  Delia  reached  home  her  intoxication  gave 
way  a  little  to  prudence  and  reason.  She  got  out 
her  curling  irons  and  lighted  the  gas  and  went  to 
work  repairing  the  ravages  made  by  generosity 
added  to  love.  Which  is  always  a  tremendous  task, 
dear  friends  —  a  mammoth  task. 

Within  forty  minutes  her  head  was  covered  with 
tiny,  close-lying  curls  that  made  her  look  wonder 
fully  like  a  truant  schoolboy.  She  looked  at  her  re 
flection  in  the  mirror  long,  carefully,  and  critically. 


The  Gift  of  the  Magi  21 

"  If  Jim  doesn't  kill  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  be 
fore  he  takes  a  second  look  at  me,  he'll  say  I  look 
like  a  Coney  Island  chorus  girl.  But  what  could  I 
do  —  oh !  what  could  I  do  with  a  dollar  and  eighty- 
seven  cents?  " 

At  7  o'clock  the  coffee  was  made  and  the  frying- 
pan  was  on  the  back  of  the  stove  hot  and  ready  to 
cook  the  chops. 

Jim  was  never  late.  Delia  doubled  the  fob  chain 
in  her  hand  and  sat  on  the  corner  of  the  table  near 
the  door  that  he  always  entered.  Then  she  heard 
his  step  on  the  stair  away  down  on  the  first  flight, 
and  she  turned  white  for  just  a  moment.  She  had  a 
habit  of  saying  little  silent  prayers  about  the  simplest 
everyday  things,  and  now  she  whispered :  "  Please 
God,  make  him  think  I  am  still  pretty." 

The  door  opened  and  Jim  stepped  in  and  closed 
it.  He  looked  thin  and  very  serious.  Poor  fellow, 
he  was  only  twenty-two  —  and  to  be  burdened  with  a 
family !  He  needed  a  new  overcoat  and  he  was  with 
out  gloves. 

Jim  stopped  inside  the  door,  as  immovable  as  a 
setter  at  the  scent  of  quail.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
Delia,  and  there  was  an  expression  in  them  that  she 
could  not  read,  and  it  terrified  her.  It  was  not 
anger,  nor  surprise,  nor  disapproval,  nor  horror, 


22  The  Four  Million 

nor  any  of  the  sentiments  that  she  had  been  pre 
pared  for.  He  simply  stared  at  her  fixedly  with  that 
peculiar  expression  on  his  face. 

Delia  wriggled  off  the  table  and  went  for  him. 

"  Jim,  darling,"  she  cried,  "  don't  look  at  me  that 
way.  I  had  my  hair  cut  off  and  sold  it  because  I 
couldn't  have  lived  through  Christmas  without  giving 
you  a  present.  It'll  grow  out  again  —  you  won't 
mind,  will  you ?  I  just  had  to  do  it.  My  hair  grows 
awfully  fast.  Say  *  Merry  Christmas ! '  Jim,  and 
let's  be  happy.  You  don't  know  what  a  nice  —  what 
a  beautiful,  nice  gift  I've  got  for  you." 

"  You've  cut  off  your  hair?  "  asked  Jim,  labori 
ously,  as  if  he  had  not  arrived  at  that  patent  fact 
yet  even  after  the  hardest  mental  labour. 

"  Cut  it  off  and  sold  it,"  said  Delia.  "  Don't  you 
like  me  just  as  well,  anyhow?  I'm  me  without  my 
hair,  ain't  I?" 

Jim  looked  about  the  room  curiously. 

"  You  say  your  hair  is  gone  ?  "  he  said,  with  an  air 
almost  of  idiocy. 

"  You  needn't  look  for  it,"  said  Delia.  "  It's  sold, 
I  tell  you  —  sold  and  gone,  too.  It's  Christmas  Eve, 
boy.  Be  good  to  me,  for  it  went  for  you.  Maybe 
the  hairs  of  my  head  were  numbered,"  she  went  on 
with  a  sudden  serious  sweetness,  "  but  nobody  could 


The  Gift  of  the  Magi  23 

ever  count  my  love  for  you.  Shall  I  put  the  chops 
on,  Jim?  " 

Out  of  his  trance  Jim  seemed  quickly  to  wake.  He 
enfolded  his  Delia.  For  ten  seconds  let  us  regard 
with  discreet  scrutiny  some  inconsequential  object 
in  the  other  direction.  Eight  dollars  a  week  or  a 
million  a  year  —  what  is  the  difference?  A  mathe 
matician  or  a  wit  would  give  you  the  wrong  answer. 
The  magi  brought  valuable  gifts,  but  that  was  not 
among  them.  This  dark  assertion  will  be  illuminated 
later  on. 

Jim  drew  a  package  from  his  overcoat  pocket  and 
threw  it  upon  the  table. 

"  Don't  make  any  mistake,  Dell,"  he  said,  "  about 
me.  I  don't  think  there's  anything  in  the  way  of  a 
haircut  or  a  shave  or  a  shampoo  that  could  make  me 
like  my  girl  any  less.  But  if  you'll  unwrap  that 
package  you  may  see  why  you  had  me  going  a  while 
At  first." 

White  fingers  and  nimble  tore  at  the  string  and 
paper.  And  then  an  ecstatic  scream  of  joy;  and 
then,  alas!  a  quick  feminine  change  to  hysterical 
tears  and  wails,  necessitating  the  immediate  employ 
ment  of  all  the  comforting  powers  of  the  lord  of  the 
flat. 

For  there  lay  The  Combs  —  the  set  of  combs,  side 


24  The  Four  Million 

and  back,  that  Delia  had  worshipped  for  long  in  a 
Broadway  window.  Beautiful  combs,  pure  tor 
toise  shell,  with  jewelled  rims  —  just  the  shade  to 
wear  in  the  beautiful  vanished  hair.  They  were  ex 
pensive  combs,  she  knew,  and  her  heart  had  simply 
craved  and  yearned  over  them  without  the  least  hope 
of  possession.  And  now,  they  were  hers,  but  the 
tresses  that  should  have  adorned  the  coveted  adorn 
ments  were  gone. 

But  she  hugged  them  to  her  bosom,  and  at  length 
she  was  able  to  look  up  with  dim  eyes  and  a  smile 
and  say :  "  My  hair  grows  so  fast,  Jim !  " 

And  then  Delia  leaped  up  like  a  little  singed  cat 
and  cried,  "  Oh,  oh !  " 

Jim  had  not  yet  seen  his  beautiful  present.  She 
held  it  out  to  him  eagerly  upon  her  open  palm.  The 
dull  precious  metal  seemed  to  flash  with  a  reflection 
of  her  bright  and  ardent  spirit. 

"  Isn't  it  a  dandy,  Jim  ?  I  hunted  all  over  town 
to  find  it.  You'll  have  to  look  at  the  time  a  hundred 
times  a  day  now.  Give  me  your  watch.  I  want  to 
see  how  it  looks  on  it." 

Instead  of  obeying,  Jim  tumbled  down  on  the  couch 
and  put  his  hands  under  the  back  of  his  head  and 
smiled. 

"  Dell,"  said  he,  "  let's  put  our  Christmas  pres- 


The  Gift  of  the  Magi  25 

ents  away  and  keep  'em  a  while.  They're  too  nice  to 
use  just  at  present.  I  sold  the  watch  to  get  the  money 
to  buy  your  combs.  And  now  suppose  you  put  the 
chops  on." 

The  magi,  as  you  know,  were  wise  men  —  wonder 
fully  wise  men  —  who  brought  gifts  to  the  Babe  in  the 
manger.  They  invented  the  art  of  giving  Christ 
mas  presents.  Being  wise,  their  gifts  were  no  doubt 
wise  ones,  possibly  bearing  the  privilege  of  exchange 
in  case  of  duplication.  And  here  I  have  lamely  re 
lated  to  you  the  uneventful  chronicle  of  two  foolish 
children  in  a  flat  who  most  unwisely  sacrificed  for 
each  other  the  greatest  treasures  of  their  house.  But 
in  a  last  word  to  the  wise  of  these  days  let  it  be  said 
that  of  all  who  give  gifts  these  two  were  the  wisest. 
Of  all  who  give  and  receive  gifts,  such  as  they  are 
wisest.  Everywhere  they  are  wisest.  They  are  the 
magi. 


rA  COSMOPOLITE  IN  A  CAFE 

A.T  midnight  the  cafe  was  crowded.  By  some 
chance  the  little  table  at  which  I  sat  had  escaped  the 
eye  of  incomers,  and  two  vacant  chairs  at  it  extended 
their  arms  with  venal  hospitality  to  the  influx  of 
patrons. 

And  then  a  cosmopolite  sat  in  one  of  them,  and  I 
was  glad,  for  I  held  a  theory  that  since  Adam  no  true 
citizen  of  the  world  has  existed.  We  hear  of  them, 
and  we  see  foreign  labels  on  much  luggage,  but  we 
find  travellers  instead  of  cosmopolites. 

I  invoke  your  consideration  of  the  scene  —  the 
marble-topped  tables,  the  range  of  leather-upholstered 
wall  seats,  the  gay  company,  the  ladies  dressed  in 
demi-state  toilets,  speaking  in  an  exquisite  visible 
chorus  of  taste,  economy,  opulence  or  art;  the  sedu 
lous  and  largess-loving  garfons,  the  music  wisely 
catering  to  all  with  its  raids  upon  the  composers; 
the  melange  of  talk  and  laughter  —  and,  if  you  will, 
the  Wiirzburger  in  the  tall  glass  cones  that  bend 
to  your  lips  as  a  ripe  cherry  sways  on  its  branch 
to  the  beak  of  a  robber  jay.  I  was  told  by  a  sculptor 

from  Mauch  Chunk  that  the  scene  was  truly  Parisian. 

36 


A  Cosmopolite  in  a  Cafe  27 

My  cosmopolite  was  named  E.  Rushmore  Coglan, 
and  he  will  be  heard  from  next  summer  at  Coney 
Island.  He  is  to  establish  a  new  "  attraction  "  there, 
he  informed  me,  offering  kingly  diversion.  And 
then  his  conversation  rang  along  parallels  of  latitude 
and  longitude.  He  took  the  great,  round  world  in 
his  hand,  so  to  speak,  familiarly,  contemptuously,  and 
it  seemed  no  larger  than  the  seed  of  a  Maraschino 
cherry  in  a  table  d'hote  grape  fruit.  He  spoke  dis 
respectfully  of  the  equator,  he  skipped  from  conti 
nent  to  continent,  he  derided  the  zones,  he  mopped  up 
the  high  seas  with  his  napkin.  With  a  wave  of  hi? 
hand  he  would  speak  of  a  certain  bazaar  in  Hydera 
bad.  Whiff!  He  would  have  you  on  skis  in  Lap 
land.  Zip!  Now  you  rode  the  breakers  with  the 
Kanakas  at  Kealaikahiki.  Presto !  He  dragged  you 
through  an  Arkansas  post-oak  swamp,  let  you  dry  for 
a  moment  on  the  alkali  plains  of  his  Idaho  ranch,  then 
whirled  you  into  the  society  of  Viennese  archdukes. 
Anon  he  would  be  telling  you  of  a  cold  he  acquired 
in  a  Chicago  lake  breeze  and  how  old  Escamila  cured 
it  in  Buenos  Ayres  with  a  hot  infusion  of  the  chu- 
chida  weed.  You  would  have  addressed  a  letter  to 
"  E.  Rushmore  Coglan,  Esq.,  the  Earth,  Solar  Sys 
tem,  the  Universe,"  and  have  mailed  it,  feeling  con 
fident  that  it  would  be  delivered  to  him. 


28  The  Four  Million 

I  was  sure  that  I  had  found  at  last  the  one  true 
cosmopolite  since  Adam,  and  I  listened  to  his  world 
wide  discourse  fearful  lest  I  should  discover  in  it 
the  local  note  of  the  mere  globe-trotter.  But  his 
opinions  never  fluttered  or  drooped;  he  was  as  im 
partial  to  cities,  countries  and  continents  as  the  winds 
or  gravitation. 

And  as  E.  Rushmore  Coglan  prattled  of  this  little 
planet  I  thought  with  glee  of  a  great  almost-cos- 
mopolite  who  wrote  for  the  whole  world  and  dedi 
cated  himself  to  Bombay.  In  a  poem  he  has  to  say 
that  there  is  pride  and  rivalry  between  the  cities  of 
the  earth,  and  that  "  the  men  that  breed  from  them, 
they  traffic  up  and  down,  but  cling  to  their  cities' 
hem  as  a  child  to  the  mother's  gown."  And  when 
ever  they  walk  "  by  roaring  streets  unknown  "  they 
remember  their  native  city  "  most  faithful,  foolish, 
fond;  making  her  mere-breathed  name  their  bond 
upon  their  bond."  And  my  glee  was  roused  because 
I  had  caught  Mr.  Kipling  napping.  Here  I  had 
found  a  man  not  made  from  dust;  one  who  had  no 
narrow  boasts  of  birthplace  or  country,  one  who,  if 
he  bragged  at  all,  would  brag  of  his  whole  round 
globe  against  the  Martians  and  tke  inhabitants  of 
the  Moon. 

Expression    on    these    subjects    was    precipitated 


A  Cosmopolite  In  a  Cafe  29. 

from  E.  Rushmore  Coglan  by  the  third  corner  to  our: 
table.  While  Coglan  was  describing  to  me  the  topog 
raphy  along  the  Siberian  Railway  the  orchestra  glided 
into  a  medley.  The  concluding  air  was  "  Dixie," 
and  as  the  exhilarating  notes  tumbled  forth  they 
were  almost  overpowered  by  a  great  clapping  of 
hands  from  almost  every  table. 

It  is  worth  a  paragraph  to  say  that  this  remark 
able  scene  can  be  witnessed  every  evening  in  nu 
merous  cafes  in  the  City  of  New  York.  Tons  of  brew 
have  been  consumed  over  theories  to  account  for  it. 
Some  have  conjectured  hastily  that  all  Southerners 
in  town  hie  themselves  to  cafes  at  nightfall.  This 
applause  of  the  **  rebel "  air  in  a  Northern  city  does 
puzzle  a  little ;  but  it  is  not  insolvable.  The  war  with 
Spain,  many  years'  generous  mint  and  watermelon 
crops,  a  few  long-shot  winners  at  the  New  Orleans 
race-track,  and  the  brilliant  banquets  given  by  the 
Indiana  and  Kansas  citizens  who  compose  the  North 
Carolina  Society  have  made  the  South  rather  a 
"  fad "  in  Manhattan.  Your  manicure  will  lisp 
softly  that  your  left  forefinger  reminds  her  so  much 
of  a  gentleman's  in  Richmond,  Va.  Oh,  certainly; 
but  many  a  lady  has  to  work  now  —  the  war,  you 
know. 

When  "  Dixie "  was  being  played  a  dark-haired 


30  The  Four  Million 

young  man  sprang  up  from  somewhere  with  a  Mosby 
guerrilla  yell  and  waved  frantically  his  soft-brimmed 
hat.  Then  he  strayed  through  the  smoke,  dropped 
into  the  vacant  chair  at  our  table  and  pulled  out 
cigarettes. 

The  evening  was  at  the  period  when  reserve  is 
thawed.  One  of  us  mentioned  three  Wiirzburgers 
to  the  waiter;  the  dark-haired  young  man  acknowl 
edged  his  inclusion  in  the  order  by  a  smile  and  a 
nod.  I  hastened  to  ask  him  a  question  because  I 
wanted  to  try  out  a  theory  I  had. 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  I  began,  "  whether 
you  are  from  — " 

The  fist 'of  E.  Rushmore  Coglan  banged  the  table 
and  I  was  jarred  into  silence. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  he,  "  but  that's  a  question  I 
never  like  to  hear  asked.  What  does  it  matter  where 
a  man  is  from?  Is  it  fair  to  judge  a  man  by  his 
post-office  address?  Why,  I've  seen  Kentuckians 
who  hated  whiskey,  Virginians  who  weren't  descended 
from  Pocahontas,  Indianians  who  hadn't  written  a 
novel,  Mexicans  who  didn't  wear  velvet  trousers  with 
silver  dollars  sewed  along  the  seams,  funny  English 
men,  spendthrift  Yankees,  cold-blooded  Southerners, 
narrow-minded  Westerners,  and  New  Yorkers  who 
were  too  busy  to  stop  for  an  hour  on  the  street  to 


A  Cosmopolite  in  a  Cafe  31 

watch  a  one-armed  grocer's  clerk  do  up  cranberries 
in  paper  bags.  Let  a  man  be  a  man  and  don't  handi 
cap  him  with  the  label  of  any  section." 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  said,  "  but  my  curiosity  was  not 
altogether  an  idle  one.  I  know  the  South,  and  when 
the  band  plays  *  Dixie '  I  like  to  observe.  I  have 
formed  the  belief  that  the  man  who  applauds  that 
air  with  special  violence  and  ostensible  sectional 
loyalty  is  invariably  a  native  of  either  Secaucus,  N. 
J.,  or  the  district  between  Murray  Hill  Lyceum  and 
the  Harlem  River,  this  city.  I  was  about  to  put  my 
opinion  to  the  test  by  inquiring  of  this  gentleman 
when  you  interrupted  with  your  own  —  larger  theory, 
I  must  confess." 

And  now  the  dark-haired  young  man  spoke  to  me, 
and  it  became  evident  that  his  mind  also  moved  along 
its  own  set  of  grooves. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  a  periwinkle,"  said  he,  mys 
teriously,  "  on  the  top  of  a  valley,  and  sing  too- 
ralloo-ralloo." 

This  was  clearly  too  obscure,  so  I  turned  again  to 
Coglan. 

"  I've  been  around  the  world  twelve  times,"  said 
he.  "  I  know  an  Esquimau  in  Upernavik  who  sends 
to  Cincinnati  for  his  neckties,  and  I  saw  a  goat- 
herder  in  Uruguay  who  won  a  prize  in  a  Battle 


32  The  Four  Million 

Creek  breakfast  food  puzzle  competition.  I  pay  rent 
on  a  room  in  Cairo,  Egypt,  and  another  in  Yoko 
hama  all  the  year  around.  I've  got  slippers  waiting 
for  me  in  a  tea-house  in  Shanghai,  and  I  don't  have 
to  tell  'em  how  to  cook  my  eggg  in  Rio  Janeiro  or 
Seattle.  It's  a  mighty  little  old  world.  What's  the 
use  of  bragging  about  being  from  the  North,  or  the 
South,  or  the  old  manor  house  in  the  dale,  or  Euclid 
avenue,  Cleveland,  or  Pike's  Peak,  or  Fairfax  County, 
Va.,  or  Hooligan's  Flats  or  any  place?  It'll  be  a 
better  world  when  we  quit  being  fools  about  some 
mildewed  town  or  ten  acres  of  swampland  just  be 
cause  we  happened  to  be  born  there." 

"  You  seem  to  be  a  genuine  cosmopolite,"  I  said, 
admiringly.  "  But  it  also  seems  that  you  would  de 
cry  patriotism." 

"  A  relic  of  the  stone  age,"  declared  Coglan, 
warmly.  "  We  are  all  brothers  —  Chinamen,  Eng 
lishmen,  Zulus,  Patagonians  and  the  people  in  the 
bend  of  the  Kaw  River.  Some  day  all  this  petty 
pride  in  one's  city  or  State  or  section  or  country 
will  be  wiped  out,  and  we'll  all  be  citizens  of  the 
world,  as  we  ought  to  be." 

"  But  while  you  are  wandering  in  foreign  lands," 
I  persisted,  "  do  not  your  thoughts  revert  to  some 
spot  —  some  dear  and  — " 


A  Cosmopolite  in  a  Cafe  33 

"  Narj  a  spot,"  interrupted  E.  R.  Coglan,  flip 
pantly.  "  The  terrestrial,  globular,  planetary  hunk 
of  matter,  slightly  flattened  at  the  poles,  and  known 
as  the  Earth,  is  my  abode.  I've  met  a  good  many 
object-bound  citizens  of  this  country  abroad.  I've 
seen  men  from  Chicago  sit  in  a  gondola  in  Venice 
on  a  moonlight  night  and  brag  about  their  drainage 
canal.  I've  seen  a  Southerner  on  being  introduced 
to  the  King  of  England  hand  that  monarch,  without 
batting  his  eyes,  the  information  that  his  grand- 
aunt  on  his  mother's  side  was  related  by  marriage 
to  the  Perkinses,  of  Charleston.  I  knew  a  New 
Yorker  who  was  kidnapped  for  ransom  by  some 
Afghanistan  bandits.  His  people  sent  over  the 
money  and  he  came  back  to  Kabul  with  the  agent. 
*  Afghanistan  ?  '  the  natives  said  to  him  through  an 
interpreter.  *  Well,  not  so  slow,  do  you  think?  '  *  Oh, 
I  don't  know,'  says  he,  and  he  begins  to  tell  them 
about  a  cab  driver  at  Sixth  avenue  and  Broadway. 
Those  ideas  don't  suit  me.  I'm  not  tied  down  to  any 
thing  that  isn't  8,000  miles  in  diameter.  Just  put 
me  down  as  E.  Rushmore  Coglan,  citizen  of  the  ter 
restrial  sphere." 

My  cosmopolite  made  a  large  adieu  and  left  me, 
for  he  thought  he  saw  some  one  through  the  chatter 
and  smoke  whom  he  knew.  So  I  was  left  with  the 


34  The  Four  Million 

would-be  periwinkle,  who  was  reduced  to  Wiirzburger 
without  further  ability  to  voice  his  aspirations  to 
perch,  melodious,  upon  the  summit  of  a  valley. 

I  sat  reflecting  upon  my  evident  cosmopolite  and 
wondering  how  the  poet  had  managed  to  miss  him. 
He  was  my  discovery  and  I  believed  in  him.  How 
was  it?  "  The  men  that  breed  from  them  they  traf 
fie  up  and  down,  but  cling  to  their  cities'  hem  as  a 
child  to  the  mother's  gown." 

Not  so  E.  Rushmore  Coglan.  With  the  whole 
world  for  his  — •• 

My  meditations  were  interrupted  by  a  tremendous 
noise  and  conflict  in  another  part  of  the  cafe.  I 
saw  above  the  heads  of  the  seated  patrons  E.  Rush- 
more  Coglan  and  a  stranger  to  me  engaged  in  ter 
rific  battle.  They  fought  between  the  tables  like 
Titans,  and  glasses  crashed,  and  men  caught  their 
hats  up  and  were  knocked  down,  and  a  brunette 
screamed,  and  a  blonde  began  to  sing  "  Teasing." 

My  cosmopolite  was  sustaining  the  pride  and  rep 
utation  of  the  Earth  when  the  waiters  closed  in  on 
both  combatants  with  their  famous  flying  wedge 
formation  and  bore  them  outside,  still  resisting. 

I  called  McCarthy,  one  of  the  French  gar$ons,  and 
asked  him  the  cause  of  the  conflict. 

"  The  man  with  the  red  tie  "  (that  was  my  cos- 


A  Cosmopolite  in  a  Caf6  35 

mopolite),  said  he,  "  got  hot  on  account  of  things 
said  about  the  bum  sidewalks  and  water  supply  of 
the  place  he  come  from  by  the  other  guy." 

"  Why,"  said  I,  bewildered,  "  that  man  is  a  citiaen 
of  the  world  —  a  cosmopolite.  He — " 

"  Originally  from  Mattawamkeag,  Maine,  he 
said,"  continued  McCarthy,  "  and  he  wouldn't  stand 
for  no  knockin'  the  place." 


BETWEEN  ROUNDS 

1HE  May  moon  shone  bright  upon  the  private 
boarding-house  of  Mrs.  Murphy.  By  reference 
to  the  almanac  a  large  amount  of  territory 
will  be  discovered  upon  which  its  rays  also  fell. 
Spring  was  in  its  heydey,  with  hay  fever  soon  to 
follow.  The  parks  were  green  with  new  leaves  and 
buyers  for  the  Western  and  Southern  trade.  Flow 
ers  and  summer-resort  agents  were  blowing;  the  air 
and  answers  to  Lawson  were  growing  milder;  hand- 
organs,  fountains  and  pinochle  were  playing  every 
where. 

The  windows  of  Mrs.  Murphy's  boarding-house 
were  open.  A  group  of  boarders  were  seated  on  the 
high  stoop  upon  round,  flat  mats  like  German  pan 
cakes. 

In  one  of  the  second-floor  front  windows  Mrs.  Mc- 
Caskey  awaited  her  husband.  Supper  was  cooling 
on  the  table.  Its  heat  went  into  Mrs.  McCaskey. 

At  nine  Mr.  McCaskey  came.  He  carried  his  coat 
on  his  arm  and  his  pipe  in  his  teeth;  and  he  apolo 
gised  for  disturbing  the  boarders  on  the  steps  as  he 

36 


Between  Rounds  37 

selected  spots  of  stone  between  them  on  which  to  set 
his  size  9,  width  Ds. 

As  he  opened  the  door  of  his  room  he  received  a 
surprise.  Instead  of  the  usual  stove-lid  or  potato- 
masher  for  him  to  dodge,  came  only  words. 

Mr.  McCaskey  reckoned  that  the  benign  May  moon 
had  softened  the  breast  of  his  spouse. 

"  I  heard  ye,"  came  the  oral  substitutes  for  kitch- 
enware.  "  Ye  can  apollygise  to  riff-raff  of  the  streets 
for  settin'  yer  unhandy  feet  on  the  tails  of  their 
frocks,  but  ye'd  walk  on  the  neck  of  yer  wife  the 
length  of  a  clothes-line  without  so  much  as  a  '  Kiss 
me  fut,'  and  I'm  sure  it's  that  long  from  rubberin' 
out  the  windy  for  ye  and  the  victuals  cold  such  as 
there's  money  to  buy  after  drinkin*  up  yer  wages  at 
Gallegher's  every  Saturday  evenin',  and  the  gas  man 
here  twice  to-day  for  his." 

"  Woman !  "  said  Mr.  McCaskey,  dashing  his  coat 
and  hat  upon  a  chair,  "  the  noise  of  ye  is  an  insult 
to  me  appetite.  When  ye  run  down  politeness  ye 
take  the  mortar  from  between  the  bricks  of  the 
foundations  of  society.  Tis  no  more  than  exercisin' 
the  acrimony  of  a  gentleman  when  ye  ask  the  dissent 
of  ladies  blockin'  the  way  for  steppin'  between  them. 
Will  ye  bring  the  pig's  face  of  ye  out  of  the  windy 
and  see  to  the  food?  " 


38  The  Four  Million 

Mrs.  McCaskey  arose  heavily  and  went  to  the 
stove.  There  was  something  in  her  manner  that 
warned  Mr.  McCaskey.  When  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  went  down  suddenly  like  a  barometer  it  usually 
foretold  a  fall  of  crockery  and  tinware. 

"  Pig's  face,  is  it? "  said  Mrs.  McCaskey,  and 
hurled  a  stewpan  full  of  bacon  and  turnips  at  her 
lord. 

Mr.  McCaskey  was  no  novice  at  repartee.  He 
knew  what  should  follow  the  entree.  On  the  table 
was  a  roast  sirloin  of  pork,  garnished  with  sham 
rocks.  He  retorted  with  this,  and  drew  the  appro 
priate  return  of  a  bread  pudding  in  an  earthen  dish. 
A  hunk  of  Swiss  cheese  accurately  thrown  by  her 
husband  struck  Mrs.  McCaskey  below  one  eye. 
When  she  replied  with  a  well-aimed  coffee-pot  full 
of  a  hot,  black,  semi-fragrant  liquid  the  battle,  ac 
cording  to  courses,  should  have  ended. 

But  Mr.  McCaskey  was  no  50-cent  table  d'hoter. 
Let  cheap  Bohemians  consider  coffee  the  end,  if  they 
would.  Let  them  make  that  faux  pas.  He  was 
foxier  still.  Finger-bowls  were  not  beyond  the  com 
pass  of  his  experience.  They  were  not  to  be  had  in 
the  Pension  Murphy;  but  their  equivalent  was  at 
hand.  Triumphantly  he  sent  the  granite-ware  wash 
basin  at  the  head  of  his  matrimonial  adversary. 


Between  Roiwds  39 

Mrs.  McCaskey  dodged  in  time.  She  reached  for 
a  flatiron,  with  which,  as  a  sort  of  cordial,  she  hoped 
to  bring  the  gastronomical  duel  to  a  close.  But  a 
loud,  wailing  scream  downstairs  caused  both  her  and 
Mr.  McCaskey  to  pause  in  a  sort  of  involuntary 
armistice. 

On  the  sidewalk  at  the  corner  of  the  house  Police 
man  Cleary  was  standing  with  one  ear  upturned, 
listening  to  the  crash  of  household  utensils. 

"  'Tis  Jawn  McCaskey  and  his  missis  at  it  again," 
meditated  the  policeman.  "  I  wonder  shall  I  go  up 
and  stop  the  row.  I  will  not.  Married  folks  they 
are;  and  few  pleasures  they  have.  'Twill  not  last 
long.  Sure,  they'll  have  to  borrow  more  dishes  to 
keep  it  up  with," 

And  just  then  came  the  loud  scream  below-stairs, 
betokening  fear  or  dire  extremity.  "  'Tis  probably 
the  cat,"  said  Policeman  Cleary,  and  walked  hastily 
in  the  other  direction. 

The  boarders  on  the  steps  were  fluttered.  Mr. 
Toomey,  an  insurance  solicitor  bjj  birth  and  an  in 
vestigator  by  profession,  went  inside  to  analyse  the 
scream.  He  returned  with  the  news  that  Mrs. 
Murphy's  little  boy,  Mike,  was  lost.  Following  the 
messenger,  out  bounced  Mrs.  Murphy  —  two  hun 
dred  pounds  in  tears  and  hysterics,  clutching  the  air 


40  The  Four  Million 

and  howling  to  the  sky  for  the  loss  of  thirty  pounds 
of  freckles  and  mischief.  Bathos,  truly;  but  Mr. 
Toomey  sat  down  at  the  side  of  Miss  Purdy,  mil 
linery,  and  their  hands  came  together  in  sympathy. 
The  two  old  maids,  Misses  Walsh,  who  complained 
every  day  about  the  noise  in  the  halls,  inquired  imme 
diately  if  anybody  had  looked  behind  the  clock. 

Major  Grigg,  who  sat  by  his  fat  wife  on  the 
top  step,  arose  and  buttoned  his  coat.  "  The  little 
one  lost?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  will  scour  the  city." 
His  wife  never  allowed  him  out  after  dark.  But  now 
she  said :  "  Go,  Ludovic !  "  in  a  baritone  voice. 
"  Whoever  can  look  upon  that  mother's  grief  without 
springing  to  her  relief  has  a  heart  of  stone."  "  Give 
me  some  thirty  or  —  sixty  cents,  my  love,"  said  the 
Major.  "  Lost  children  sometimes  stray  far.  I  may 
need  carfares." 

Old  man  Denny,  hall  room,  fourth  floor  back,  who 
sat  on  the  lowest  step,  trying  to  read  a  paper  by 
the  street  lamp,  turned  over  a  page  to  follow  up  the 
article  about  the  carpenters'  strike.  Mrs.  Murphy 
shrieked  to  the  moon :  "  Oh,  ar-r-Mike,  f 'r  Gawd's 
sake,  where  is  me  little  bit  av  a  boy  ?  " 

"  When'd  ye  see  him  last?  "  asked  old  man  Denny, 
with  one  eye  on  the  report  of  the  Building  Trades 
League. 


Between  Rounds  41 

"  Oh,"  wailed  Mrs.  Murphy,  "  'twas  yisterday,  or 
maybe  four  hours  ago !  I  dunno.  But  it's  lost  he  is, 
me  little  boy  Mike.  He  was  playin'  on  the  side 
walk  only  this  mornin' —  or  was  it  Wednesday  ?  I'm 
that  busy  with  work,  'tis  hard  to  keep  up  with  dates. 
But  I've  looked  the  house  over  from  top  to  cellar, 
and  it's  gone  he  is.  Oh,  for  the  love  av  Hiven " 

Silent,  grim,  colossal,  the  big  city  has  ever  stood 
against  its  revilers.  They  call  it  hard  as  iron ;  they 
say  that  no  pulse  of  pity  beats  in  its  bosom;  they 
compare  its  streets  with  lonely  forests  and  deserts 
of  lava.  But  beneath  the  hard  crust  of  the  lobster 
is  found  a  delectable  and  luscious  food.  Perhaps  a 
different  simile  would  have  been  wiser.  Still,  no 
body  should  take  offence.  We  would  call  no  one  a 
lobster  without  good  and  sufficient  claws. 

No  calamity  so  touches  the  common  heart  of  hu 
manity  as  does  the  straying  of  a  little  child.  Their 
feet  are  so  uncertain  and  feeble ;  the  ways  are  so  steep 
and  strange. 

Major  Griggs  hurried  down  to  the  corner,  and  up 
the  avenue  into  Billy's  place.  "  Gimme  a  rye-high," 
he  said  to  the  servitor.  "  Haven't  seen  a  bow-legged, 
dirty-faced  little  devil  of  a  six-year-old  lost  kid 
around  here  anywhere,  have  you?  " 

Mr.  Toomey  retained  Miss  Purdy's  hand  on  the 


42  The  Four  Million 

steps.  "  Think  of  that  dear  little  babe,"  said  Miss 
Purdy,  "  lost  from  his  mother's  side  —  perhaps  al 
ready  fallen  beneath  the  iron  hoofs  of  galloping 
steeds  —  oh,  isn't  it  dreadful?" 

"  Ain't  that  right?  "  agreed  Mr.  Toomey,  squeez 
ing  her  hand.  "  Say  I  start  out  and  help  look  for 
urn!" 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Purdy,  "  you  should.  But, 
oh,  Mr.  Toomey,  you  are  so  dashing  •L—  so  reckless  — 
suppose  in  your  enthusiasm  some  accident  should  be 
fall  you,  then  what  — " 

Old  man  Denny  read  on  about  the  arbitration 
agreement,  with  one  finger  on  the  lines. 

In  the  second  floor  front  Mr.  and  Mrs.  McCaskey 
came  to  the  window  to  recover  their  second  wind. 
Mr.  McCaskey  was  scooping  turnips  out  of  his  vest 
with  a  crooked  forefinger,  and  his  lady  was  wiping 
an  eye  that  the  salt  of  the  roast  pork  had  not  bene 
fited.  They  heard  the  outcry  below,  and  thrust  their 
heads  out  of  the  window. 

"  'Tis  little  Mike  is  lost,"  said  Mrs.  McCaskey,  in 
a  hushed  voice,  "  the  beautiful,  little,  trouble-making 
angel  of  a  gossoon !  " 

"  The  bit  of  a  boy  mislaid?  "  said  Mr.  McCaskey, 
leaning  out  of  the  window.  "  Why,  now.  that's  bad 


Between  Rounds  43 

enough,  entirely.  The  childer,  they  be  different.  If 
'twas  a  woman  I'd  be  willin',  for  they  leave  peace  be 
hind  'em  when  they  go." 

Disregarding  the  thrust,  Mrs.  McCaskey  caught 
her  husband's  arm. 

"  Jawn,"  she  said,  sentimentally,  "  Missis  Mur 
phy's  little  bye  is  lost.  'Tis  a  great  city  for  losing 
little  boys.  Six  years  old  he  was.  Jawn,  'tis  the 
same  age  our  little  bye  would  have  been  if  we  had  had 
one  six  years  ago." 

"  We  never  did,"  said  Mr.  McCaskey,  lingering 
with  the  fact. 

"  But  if  we  had,  Jawn,  think  what  sorrow  would 
be  in  our  hearts  this  night,  with  our  little  Phelan 
run  away  and  stolen  in  the  city  nowheres  at  all." 

"  Ye  talk  foolishness,"  said  Mr.  McCaskey. 
"  Tis  Pat  he  would  be  named,  after  me  old  father  in 
Cantrim." 

"  Ye  lie ! "  said  Mrs.  McCaskey,  without  anger. 
"  Me  brother  was  worth  tin  dozen  bog-trotting  Mc- 
Caskeys.  After  him  would  the  bye  be  named."  She 
leaned  over  the  window-sill  and  looked  down  at  the 
hurrying  and  bustle  below. 

"  Jawn,"  said  Mrs.  McCaskey,  softly,  "  I'm  sorry 
I  was  hasty  wid  ye." 


44  The  Four  Million 

"  'Twos  hasty  puddin',  as  ye  say/*  said  her  hus 
band,  "  and  hurry-up  turnips  and  get-a-move-on-ye 
coffee.  'Twas  what  ye  could  call  a  quick  lunch,  all 
right,  and  tell  no  lie." 

Mrs.  McCaskey  slipped  her  arm  inside  her  hus 
band's  and  took  his  rough  hand  in  hers. 

"  Listen  at  the  cryin'  of  poor  Mrs.  Murphy,"  she 
said.  "  'Tis  an  awful  thing  for  a  bit  of  a  bye  to  be 
lost  in  this  great  big  city.  If  'twas  our  little  Phelan, 
Jawn,  I'd  be  breakin'  me  heart." 

Awkwardly  Mr.  McCaskey  withdrew  his  hand. 
But  he  laid  it  around  the  nearing  shoulders  of  his 
wife. 

"  'Tis  foolishness,  of  course,"  said  he,  roughly, 
"  but  I'd  be  cut  up  some  meself  if  our  little  —  Pat 
was  kidnapped  or  anything.  But  there  never  was 
any  childer  for  us.  Sometimes  I've  been  ugly  and 
hard  with  ye,  Judy.  Forget  it." 

They  leaned  together,  and  looked  down  at  the 
heart-drama  being  acted  below. 

Long  they  sat  thus.  People  surged  along  the  side 
walk,  crowding,  questioning,  filling  the  air  with 
rumours,  and  inconsequent  surmises.  Mrs.  Murphy 
ploughed  back  and  forth  in  their  midst,  like  a  soft 
mountain  down  which  plunged  an  audible  cataract 
of  tears.  Couriers  came  and  went. 


Between  Rounds  45 

Loud  voices  and  a  renewed  uproar  were  raised  in 
front  of  the  boarding-house. 

"  What's  up  now,  Judy  ?  "  asked  Mr.  McCaskey. 

"  Tis  Missis  Murphy's  voice,"  said  Mrs.  McCas 
key,  harking.  "  She  says  she's  after  finding  little 
Mike  asleep  behind  the  roll  of  old  linoleum  under  the 
bed  in  her  room." 

Mr.  McCaskey  laughed  loudly. 

"  That's  yer  Phelan,"  he  shouted,  sardonically. 
"  Divil  a  bit  would  a  Pat  have  done  that  trick.  If 
the  bye  we  never  had  is  strayed  and  stole,  by  the 
powers,  call  him  Phelan,  and  see  him  hide  out  under 
the  bed  like  a  mangy  pup." 

Mrs.  McCaskey  arose  heavily,  and  went  toward  the 
dish  closet,  with  the  corners  of  her  mouth  drawn 
down. 

Policeman  Cleary  came  back  around  the  corner  as 
the  crowd  dispersed.  Surprised,  he  upturned  an  ear 
toward  the  McCaskey  apartment,  where  the  crash  of 
irons  and  chinaware  and  the  ring  of  hurled  kitchen 
utensils  seemed  as  loud  as  before.  Policeman  Cleary 
took  out  his  timepiece. 

"  By  the  deported  snakes !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  Jawn 
McCaskey  and  his  lady  have  been  fightin'  for  an 
hour  and  a  quarter  by  the  watch.  The  missis  could 
give  him  forty  pounds  weight.  Strength  to  his  arm." 


46  The  Four  Million 

Policeman  Cleary  strolled  back  around  the  corner. 

Old  man  Denny  folded  his  paper  and  hurried  up 
the  steps  just  as  Mrs.  Murphy  was  about  to  lock  the 
door  for  the  night. 


THE  SKYLIGHT  ROOM 

Mrs.  Parker  would  show  you  the  double 
parlours.  You  would  not  dare  to  interrupt  her 
description  of  their  advantages  and  of  the  merits 
of  the  gentleman  who  had  occupied  them  for  eight 
years.  Then  you  would  manage  to  stammer  forth 
the  confession  that  you  were  neither  a  doctor  nor  a 
dentist.  Mrs.  Parker's  manner  of  receiving  the  ad 
mission  was  such  that  you  could  never  afterward 
entertain  the  same  feeling  toward  your  parents,  who 
had  neglected  to  train  you  up  in  one  of  the  profes 
sions  that  fitted  Mrs.  Parker's  parlours. 

Next  you  ascended  one  flight  of  stairs  and  looked 
at  the  second-floor-back  at  $8.  Convinced  by  her  sec 
ond-floor  manner  that  it  was  worth  the  $12  that  Mr. 
Toosenberry  always  paid  for  it  until  he  left  to  take 
charge  of  his  brother's  orange  plantation  in  Florida 
near  Palm  Beach,  where  Mrs.  Mclntyre  always  spent 
the  winters  that  had  the  double  front  room  with  pri 
vate  bath,  you  managed  to  babble  that  you  wanted 
something  still  cheaper. 

If  you   survived  Mrs.  Parker's   scorn,  you   were 

47 


48  The  Four  Million 

taken  to  look  at  Mr.  Skidder's  large  hall  room  on  the 
third  floor.  Mr.  Skidder's  room  was  not  vacant.  He 
wrote  plays  and  smoked  cigarettes  in  k  all  day  long. 
But  every  room-hunter  was  made  to  visit  his  room 
to  admire  the  lambrequins.  [After  each  visit,  Mr. 
Skidder,  from  the  fright  caused  by  possible  eviction, 
would  pay  something  on  his  rent. 

Then  * — •  oh,  then  —  if  you  still  stood  on  one  foot, 
with  your  hot  hand  clutching  the  three  moist  dol 
lars  in  your  pocket,  and  hoarsely  proclaimed  your 
hideous  and  culpable  poverty,  nevermore  would  Mrs. 
Parker  be  cicerone  of  yours*  She  would  honk  loudly 
the  word  "  Clara,"  she  would  show  you  her  back,  and 
march  downstairs.  Then  Clara,  the  coloured  maid, 
would  escort  you  up  the  carpeted  ladder  that  served 
for  the  fourth  flight,  and  show  you  the  Skylight 
Room.  It  occupied  7x8  feet  of  floor  space  at  the 
middle  of  the  hall.  On  each  side  of  it  was  a  dark 
lumber  closet  or  storeroom. 

In  it  was  an  iron  cot,  a  washstand  and  a  chair. 
A  shelf  was  the  dresser.  Its  four  bare  walls  seemed 
to  close  in  upon  you  like  the  sides  of  a  coffin.  Your 
hand  crept  to  your  throat,  you  gasped,  you  looked 
up  as  from  a  well  —  and  breathed  once  more. 
Through  the  glass  of  the  little  skylight  you  saw  a 
square  of  blue  infinity. 


The  Skylight  Room  49 

"  Two  dollars,  suh,"  Clara  would  say  in  her  half- 
contemptuous,  half-Tuskegeenial  tones. 

One  day  Miss  Ceeson  came  hunting  for  a  room. 
She  carried  a  typewriter  made  to  be  lugged  around 
by  a  much  larger  lady.  She  was  a  very  little  girl, 
with  eyes  and  hair  that  had  kept  on  growing  after 
she  had  stopped  and  that  always  looked  as  if  they 
were  saying :  "  Goodness  me !  Why  didn't  you  keep 
up  with  us  ?  " 

Mrs.  Parker  showed  her  the  double  parlours.  "  In 
this  closet,"  she  said,  "  one  could  keep  a  skeleton  or 
anaesthetic  or  coal — " 

"  But  I  am  neither  a  doctor  nor  a  dentist,"  said 
Miss  Leeson,  with  a  shiver. 

Mrs.  Parker  gave  her  the  incredulous,  pitying, 
sneering,  icy  stare  that  she  kept  for  those  who  failed 
to  qualify  as  doctors  or  dentists,  and  led  the  way  to 
the  second  floor  back. 

"Eight  dollars?"  said  Miss  Leeson.  "  Dear  me! 
I'm  not  Hetty  if  I  do  look  green.  I'm  just  a  poor 
little  working  girl.  Show  me  something  higher  and 
lower." 

Mr.  Skidder  jumped  and  strewed  the  floor  with 
cigarette  stubs  at  the  rap  on  his  door. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Skidder,"  said  Mrs.  Parker, 
with  her  demon's  smile  at  his  pale  looks.  "  I  didn't 


50  The  Four  Million 

know  you  were  in.  I  asked  the  lady  to  have  a  look 
at  your  lambrequins." 

"  They're  too  lovely  for  anything,"  said  Miss  Lee- 
son,  smiling  in  exactly  the  way  the  angels  do. 

After  they  had  gone  Mr.  Skidder  got  very  busy 
erasing  the  tall,  black-haired  heroine  from  his  latest 
(unproduced)  play  and  inserting  a  small,  roguish 
one  with  heavy,  bright  hair  and  vivacious  features. 

"  Anna  Held'll  jump  at  it,"  said  Mr.  Skidder  to 
himself,  putting  his  feet  up  against  the  lambrequins 
and  disappearing  in  a  cloud  of  smoke  like  an  aerial 
cuttlefish. 

Presently  the  tocsin  call  of  "  Clara ! "  sounded  to 
the  world  the  state  of  Miss  Leeson's  purse.  A  dark 
goblin  seized  her,  mounted  a  Stygian  stairway, 
thrust  her  into  a  vault  with  a  glimmer  of  light  in  its 
top  and  muttered  the  menacing  and  cabalistic  words 
"Two  dollars!" 

"  I'll  take  it !  "  sighed  Miss  Leeson,  sinking  down 
upon  the  squeaky  iron  bed. 

Every  day  Miss  Leeson  went  out  to  work.  At 
night  she  brought  home  papers  with  handwriting  on 
them  and  made  copies  with  her  typewriter.  Some 
times  she  had  no  work  at  night,  and  then  she  would 
sit  on  the  steps  of  the  high  stoop  with  the  other 
roomers.  Miss  Leeson  was  not  intended  for  a  sky 


The  Skylight  Room  51 

light  room  when  the  plans  were  drawn  for  her  crea 
tion.  She  was  gay-hearted  and  full  of  tender,  whim 
sical  fancies.  Once  she  let  Mr.  Skidder  read  to  her 
three  acts  of  his  great  (unpublished)  comedy,  "  It's 
No  Kid ;  or,  The  Heir  of  the  Subway." 

There  was  rejoicing  among  the  gentlemen 
roomers  whenever  Miss  Leeson  had  time  to  sit  on  the 
steps  for  an  hour  or  two.  But  Miss  Longnecker, 
the  tall  blonde  who  taught  in  a  public  school  and 
said,  "  Well,  really ! "  to  everything  you  said,  sat  on 
the  top  step  and  sniffed.  And  Miss  Dorn,  who  shot 
at  the  moving  ducks  at  Coney  every  Sunday  and 
worked  in  a  department  store,  sat  on  the  bottom  step 
and  sniffed.  Miss  Leeson  sat  on  the  middle  step 
and  the  men  would  quickly  group  around  her. 

Especially  Mr.  Skidder,  who  had  cast  her  in  his 
mind  for  the  star  part  in  a  private,  romantic  (un 
spoken)  drama  in  real  life.  And  especially  Mr. 
Hoover,  who  was  forty-five,  fat,  flush  and  foolish. 
And  especially  very  young  Mr.  Evans,  who  set  up 
a  hollow  cough  to  induce  her  to  ask  him  to  leave 
off  cigarettes.  The  men  voted  her  "  the  funniest 
and  j  oiliest  ever,"  but  the  sniffs  on  the  top  step  and 
the  lower  step  were  implacable. 

I  pray  you  let  the  drama  halt  while  Chorus  stalks 


52  The  Four  Million 

to  the  footlights  and  drops  an  epicedian  tear  upon 
the  fatness  of  Mr.  Hoover.  Tune  the  pipes  to  the 
tragedy  of  tallow,  the  bane  of  bulk,  the  calamity 
of  corpulence.  Tried  out,  Falstaff  might  have  ren 
dered  more  romance  to  the  ton  than  would  have 
Romeo's  rickety  ribs  to  the  ounce.  A  lover  may 
sigh,  but  he  must  not  puff.  To  the  train  of  Momus 
are  the  fat  men  remanded.  In  vain  beats  the  faith- 
fullest  heart  above  a  52-inch  belt.  Avaunt,  Hoover! 
Hoover,  forty-five,  flush  and  foolish,  might  carry 
off  Helen  herself;  Hoover,  forty-five,  flush,  foolish 
and  fat  is  meat  for  perdition.  There  was  never  a 
chance  for  you,  Hoover. 

As  Mrs.  Parker's  roomers  sat  thus  one  summer's 
evening,  Miss  Leeson  looked  up  into  the  firmament 
and  cried  with  her  little  gay  laugh: 

61  Why,  there's  Billy  Jackson !  I  can  see  him  from 
down  here,  too." 

All  looked  up  —  some  at  the  windows  of  sky« 
scrapers,  some  casting  about  for  an  airship,  Jack 
son-guided. 

"  It's  that  star,"  explained  Miss  Leeson,  pointing 
with  a  tiny  finger.  "  Not  the  big  one  that  twinkle^ 
—  the  steady  blue  one  near  it.  I  can  see  it  every 
night  through  my  skylight.  I  named  it  Billy 
Jackson." 


The  Skylight  Room  53 

"  Well,  really !  "  said  Miss  Longneclcer.  "  I  didn't 
know  you  were  an  astronomer,  Miss  Leeson." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  small  star  gazer,  "  I  know  as 
much  as  any  of  them  about  the  style  of  sleeves 
they're  going  to  wear  next  fall  in  Mars." 

"  Well,  really !  "  said  Miss  Longnecker.  "  The  star 
you  refer  to  is  Gramma,  of  the  constellation  Cassio 
peia.  It  is  nearly  of  the  second  magnitude,  and  its 
meridian  passage  is  — " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  very  young  Mr.  Evans,  "  I  think 
Billy  Jackson  is  a  much  better  name  for  it." 

"  Same  here,"  said  Mr.  Hoover,  loudly  breathing 
defiance  to  Miss  Longnecker.  "  I  think  Miss  Leeson 
has  just  as  much  right  to  name  stars  as  any  of  those 
old  astrologers  had." 

"  Well,  really !  "  said  Miss  Longnecker. 

"  I  wonder  whether  it's  a  shooting  star,"  remarked 
Miss  Dorn.  *'  I  hit  nine  ducks  and  a  rabbit  out  of 
ten  in  the  gallery  at  Coney  Sunday." 

"  He  doesn't  show  up  very  well  from  down  here," 
said  Miss  Leeson.  "  You  ought  to  see  him  from  my 
room.  You  know  you  can  see  stars  even  in  the  day 
time  from  the  bottom  of  a  well.  At  night  my  room 
is  like  the  shaft  of  a  coal  mine,  and  it  makes  Billy 
Jackson  look  like  the  big  diamond  pin  that  Night 
fastens  her  kimono  with." 


54  The  Four  Million 

There  came  a  time  after  that  when  Miss  Leeson 
brought  no  formidable  papers  home  to  copy.  And 
when  she  went  out  in  the  morning,  instead  of  working, 
she  went  from  office  to  office  and  let  her  heart  melt 
away  in  the  drip  of  cold  refusals  transmitted  through 
insolent  office  boys.  This  went  on. 

There  came  an  evening  when  she  wearily  climbed 
Mrs.  Parker's  stoop  at  the  hour  when  she  always  re 
turned  from  her  dinner  at  the  restaurant.  But  she 
had  had  no  dinner. 

As  she  stepped  into  the  hall  Mr.  Hoover  met  her 
and  seized  his  chance.  He  asked  her  to  marry  him, 
and  his  fatness  hovered  above  her  like  an  avalanche. 
She  dodged,  and  caught  the  balustrade.  He  tried 
for  her  hand,  and  she  raised  it  and  smote  him  weakly 
in  the  face.  Step  by  step  she  went  up,  dragging 
herself  by  the  railing.  She  passed  Mr.  Skidder's 
door  as  he  was  red-inking  a  stage  direction  for  Myr 
tle  Delorme  (Miss  Leeson)  in  his  (unaccepted) 
comedy,  to  "  pirouette  across  stage  from  L  to  the 
side  of  the  Count."  Up  the  carpeted  ladder  she 
crawled  at  last  and  opened  the  door  of  the  skylight 
room. 

She  was  too  weak  to  light  the  lamp  or  to  undress. 
She  fell  upon  the  iron  cot,  her  fragile  body  scarcely 
hollowing  the  worn  springs.  And  in  that  Erebus  of 


The  Skylight  Room  55 

a  room  she  slowly  raised  her  heavy  eyelids,  and 
smiled. 

For  Billy  Jackson  was  shining  down  on  her,  calm 
and  bright  and  constant  through  the  skylight. 
There  was  no  world  about  her.  She  was  sunk  in  a 
pit  of  blackness,  with  but  that  small  square  of  pallid 
light  framing  the  star  that  she  had  so  whimsically 
and  oh,  so  ineffectually  named.  Miss  Longnecker 
must  be  right;  it  was  Gamma,  of  the  constellation 
Cassiopeia,  and  not  Billy  Jackson.  And  yet  she 
could  not  let  it  be  Gamma. 

As  she  lay  on  her  back  she  tried  twice  to  raise  her 
arm.  The  third  time  she  got  two  thin  fingers  to  her 
lips  and  blew  a  kiss  out  of  the  black  pit  to  Billy 
Jackson.  Her  arm  fell  back  limply. 

"  Good-bye,  Billy,"  she  murmured  faintly. 
*'  You're  millions  of  miles  away  and  you  won't  even 
twinkle  once.  But  you  kept  where  I  could  see  you 
most  of  the  time  up  there  when  there  wasn't  any 
thing  else  but  darkness  to  look  at,  didn't  you?  .  .  . 
Millions  of  miles.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  Billy  Jackson." 

Clara,  the  coloured  maid,  found  the  door  locked 
at  10  the  next  day,  and  they  forced  it  open.  Vine 
gar,  and  the  slapping  of  wrists  and  burnt  feathers 
proving  of  no  avail,  some  one  ran  to  'phone  for  an 
ambulance. 


56  The  Four  Million 

In  due  time  it  backed  up  to  the  door  with  much 
gong-clanging,  and  the  capable  young  medico,  in  his 
white  linen  coat,  ready,  active,  confident,  with  his 
smooth  face  half  debonair,  half  grim,  danced  up  the 
steps. 

"  Ambulance  call  to  49,"  he  said  briefly.  "  What's 
the  trouble?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  doctor,"  sniffed  Mrs.  Parker,  as  though 
her  trouble  that  there  should  be  trouble  in  the  house 
was  the  greater.  "  I  can't  think  what  can  be  the 
matter  with  her.  Nothing  we  could  do  would  bring 
her  to.  It's  a  young  woman,  a  Miss  Elsie  —  yes,  a 
Miss  Elsie  Leeson.  Never  before  in  my  house — " 

"  What  room  ?  "  cried  the  doctor  in  a  terrible  voice, 
to  which  Mrs.  Parker  was  a  stranger. 

"  The  skylight  room.     It  — " 

Evidently  the  ambulance  doctor  was  familiar  with 
the  location  of  skylight  rooms.  He  was  gone  up  the 
stairs,  four  at  a  time.  Mrs.  Parker  followed  slowly, 
as  her  dignity  demanded. 

On  the  first  landing  she  met  him  coming  back 
bearing  the  astronomer  in  his  arms.  He  stopped  and 
let  loose  the  practised  scalpel  of  his  tongue,  not 
loudly.  Gradually  Mrs.  Parker  crumpled  as  a  stiff 
garment  that  slips  down  from  a  nail.-  Ever  after 
ward  there  remained  crumples  in  her  mind  and  body. 


The  Skylight  Room  57 

Sometimes  her  curious  roomers  would  ask  her  what 
the  doctor  said  to  her. 

"  Let  that  be,"  she  would  answer.  "  If  I  can  get 
forgiveness  for  having  heard  it  I  will  be  satisfied." 

The  ambulance  physician  strode  with  his  burden 
through  the  pack  of  hounds  that  follow  the  curiosity 
chase,  and  even  they  fell  back  along  the  sidewalk 
abashed,  for  his  face  was  that  of  one  who  bears  his 
own  dead. 

They  noticed  that  he  did  not  lay  down  upon  the 
bed  prepared  for  it  in  the  ambulance  the  form  that 
he  carried,  and  all  that  he  said  was :  "  Drive  like 
h — I,  Wilson,"  to  the  driver. 

That  is  all.  Is  it  a  story?  In  the  next  morning's 
paper  I  saw  a  little  news  item,  and  the  last  sentence 
of  it  may  help  you  (as  it  helped  me)  to  weld  the 
incidents  together. 

It  recounted  the  reception  into  Bellevue  Hospital 
of  a  young  woman  who  had  been  removed  from  No. 

49  East street,  suffering  from  debility  induced 

by  starvation.  It  concluded  with  these  words: 

w  Dr.  William  Jackson,  the  ambulance  physician 
who  attended  the  case,  says  the  patient  will  recover*" 


A  SERVICE  OF  LOVE 

yy  HEN  one  loves  one's  Art  no  service  seems  too 
hard. 

That  is  our  premise.  This  story  shall  draw  a 
conclusion  from  it,  and  show  at  the  same  time  that 
the  premise  is  incorrect.  That  will  be  a  new  thing 
in  logic,  and  a  feat  in  story-telling  somewhat  older 
than  the  great  wall  of  China. 

Joe  Larrabee  came  out  of  the  post-oak  flats  of  the 
Middle  West  pulsing  with  a  genius  for  pictorial  art. 
At  six  he  drew  a  picture  of  the  town  pump  with  a 
prominent  citizen  passing  it  hastily.  This  effort  was 
framed  and  hung  in  the  drug  store  window  by  the 
side  of  the  ear  of  corn  with  an  uneven  number  of 
rows.  At  twenty  he  left  for  New  York  with  a  flowing 
necktie  and  a  capital  tied  up  somewhat  closer. 

Delia  Caruthers  did  things  in  six  octaves  so  prom 
isingly  in  a  pine-tree  village  in  the  South  that  her 
relatives  chipped  in  enough  in  her  chip  hat  for  her 
to  go  "  North  "  and  "  finish."  They  could  not  see 
her  f — ,  but  that  is  our  story. 

Joe  and  Delia  met  in  an  atelier  where  a  number 

of  art  and  music  students  had  gathered  to  discuss 

58 


A  Service  of  Love  59 

chiaroscuro,  Wagner,  music,  Rembrandt's  works, 
pictures,  Waldteufel,  wall  paper,  Chopin  and  Oolong. 

Joe  and  Delia  became  enamoured  one  of  the  other, 
or  each  of  the  other,  as  you  please,  and  in  a  short 
time  were  married — for  (see  above),  when  one  loves 
one's  Art  no  service  seems  too  hard. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Larrabee  began  housekeeping  in  a 
flat.  It  was  a  lonesome  flat  —  something  like  the  A 
sharp  way  down  at  the  left-hand  end  of  the  key 
board.  And  they  were  happy;  for  they  had  their 
Art,  and  they  had  each  other.  And  my  advice  to  the 
rich  young  man  would  be  —  sell  all  thou  hast,  and 
give  it  to  the  poor  —  janitor  for  the  privilege  of  liv 
ing  in  a  flat  with  your  Art  and  your  Delia. 

Flat-dwellers  shall  indorse  my  dictum  that  theirs 
is  the  only  true  happiness.  If  a  home  is  happy  it 
cannot  fit  too  close  —  let  the  dresser  collapse  and  be 
come  a  billiard  table;  let  the  mantel  turn  to  a  row 
ing  machine,  the  escritoire  to  a  spare  bedchamber, 
the  washstand  to  an  upright  piano;  let  the  four 
walls  come  together,  if  they  will,  so  you  and  your 
Delia  are  between.  But  if  home  be  the  other  kind, 
let  it  be  wide  and  long  —  enter  you  at  the  Golden 
Gate,  hang  your  hat  on  Hatteras,  your  cape  on  Cape 
Horn  and  go  out  by  the  Labrador. 

Joe  was  painting  in  the  class  of  the  great  Magis- 


60  The  Four  Million 

ter  —  you  know  his  fame.  His  fees  are  high ;  his 
lessons  are  light  —  his  high-lights  have  brought  him 
renown.  Delia  was  studying  under  Rosenstock  — 
you  know  his  repute  as  a  disturber  of  the  piano 
keys. 

They  were  mighty  happy  as  long  as  their  money 
lasted.  So  is  every  —  but  I  will  not  be  cynical. 
Their  aims  were  very  clear  and  defined.  Joe  was  to 
become  capable  very  soon  of  turning  out  pictures 
that  old  gentlemen  with  thin  side-whiskers  and  thick 
pocketbooks  would  sandbag  one  another  in  his  studio 
for  the  privilege  of  buying.  Delia  was  to  become 
familiar  and  then  contemptuous  with  Music,  so  that 
when  she  saw  the  orchestra  seats  and  boxes  unsold 
she  could  have  sore  throat  and  lobster  in  a  private 
dining-room  and  refuse  to  go  on  the  stage. 

But  the  best,  in  my  opinion,  was  the  home  life  in 
the  little  flat' — the  ardent,  voluble  chats  after  the 
day's  study;  the  cozy  dinners  and  fresh,  light  break 
fasts  ;  the  interchange  of  ambitions  —  ambitions  in 
terwoven  each  with  the  other's  or  else  inconsiderable 
—  the  mutual  help  and  inspiration ;  and  —  overlook 
my  artlessness  —  stuffed  olives  and  cheese  sandwiches 
at  11  p.  M. 

But  after  a  while  Art  flagged.     It  sometimes  does, 


A  Service  of  Love  61 

even  if  some  switchman  doesn't  flag  it.  Everything 
going  out  and  nothing  coming  in,  as  the  vulgarians 
say.  Money  was  lacking  to  pay  Mr.  Magister  and 
Herr  Rosenstock  their  prices.  When  one  loves  one's 
Art  no  service  seems  too  hard.  So,  Delia  said  she 
must  give  music  lessons  to  keep  the  chafing  dish 
bubbling. 

For  two  or  three  days  she  went  out  canvassing 
for  pupils.  One  evening  she  came  home  elated. 

"  Joe,  dear,"  she  said,  gleefully,  "  I've  a  pupil. 
And,  oh,  the  loveliest  people !  General  —  General  A. 
B.  Pinkney's  daughter  —  on  Seventy-first  street. 
Such  a  splendid  house,  Joe  —  you  ought  to  see  the 
front  door!  Byzantine  I  think  you  would  call  it. 
And  inside!  Oh,  Joe,  I  never  saw  anything  like  it 
before. 

"  My  pupil  is  his  daughter  Clementina.  I  dearly 
love  her  already.  She's  a  delicate  thing  —  dresses 
always  in  white;  and  the  sweetest,  simplest  man 
ners!  Only  eighteen  years  old.  I'm  to  give  three 
lessons  a  week;  and,  just  think,  Joe!  $5  a  lesson. 
I  don't  mind  it  a  bit;  for  when  I  get  two  or  three 
more  pupils  I  can  resume  my  lessons  with  Herr 
Rosenstock.  Now,  smooth  out  that  wrinkle  between 
your  brows,  dear,  and  let's  have  a  nice  supper." 


62  The  Four  Million 

"  That's  all  right  for  you,  Dele,"  said  Joe,  attack 
ing  a  can  of  peas  with  a  carving  knife  and  a  hatchet, 
"  but  how  about  me  ?  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to 
let  you  hustle  for  wages  while  I  philander  in  the 
regions  of  high  art?  Not  by  the  bones  of  Ben- 
Tenuto  Cellini!  I  guess  I  can  sell  papers  or  lay 
cobblestones,  and  bring  in  a  dollar  or  two." 

Delia  came  and  hung  about  his  neck. 

"  Joe,  dear,  you  are  silly.  You  must  keep  on  at 
your  studies.  It  is  not  as  if  I  had  quit  my  music 
and  gone  to  work  at  something  else.  While  I  teach 
I  learn.  I  am  always  with  my  music.  And  we  can 
live  as  happily  as  millionaires  on  $15  a  week.  You 
mustn't  think  of  leaving  Mr.  Magister." 

"  All  right,"  said  Joe,  reaching  for  the  blue  scal 
loped  vegetable  dish.  "  But  I  hate  for  you  to  be 
giving  lessons.  It  isn't  Art.  But  you're  a  trump 
and  a  dear  to  do  it." 

"  When  one  loves  one's  Art  no  service  seems  too 
hard,"  said  Delia. 

"  Magister  praised  the  sky  in  that  sketch  I  made 
in  the  park,"  said  Joe.  "  And  Tinkle  gave  me  per 
mission  to  hang  two  of  them  in  his  window.  I  may 
sell  one  if  the  right  kind  of  a  moneyed  idiot  sees 
them." 


A  Service  of  Love  63 

"  I'm  sure  you  will,"  said  Delia,  sweetly.  "  And 
now  let's  be  thankful  for  Gen.  Pinkney  and  this  veal 
roast." 

During  all  of  the  next  week  the  Larrabees  had  an 
early  breakfast.  Joe  was  enthusiastic  about  some 
morning-effect  sketches  he  was  doing  in  Central  Park, 
and  Delia  packed  him  off  breakfasted,  coddled,  praised 
and  kissed  at  7  o'clock.  Art  is  an  engaging  mistress. 
It  was  most  times  7  o'clock  when  he  returned  in  the 
evening. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Delia,  sweetly  proud  but 
languid,  triumphantly  tossed  three  five-dollar  bills 
on  the  8x10  (inches)  centre  table  of  the  8x10  (feet) 
flat  parlour. 

"  Sometimes,"  she  said,  a  little  wearily,  "  Clem 
entina  tries  me.  I'm  afraid  she  doesn't  practise 
enough,  and  I  have  to  tell  her  the  same  things  so 
often.  And  then  she  always  dresses  entirely  in 
white,  and  that  does  get  monotonous.  But  Gen. 
Pinkney  is  the  dearest  old  man !  I  wish  you  could 
know  him,  Joe.  He  comes  in  sometimes  when  I  am 
with  Clementina  at  the  piano  —  he  is  a  widower,  you 
know  —  and  stands  there  pulling  his  white  goatee. 
'  And  how  are  the  semiquavers  and  the  demisemi- 
quavers  progressing?  '  he  always  asks. 


64  The  Four  Million 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  the  wainscoting  in  that 
drawing-room,  Joe!  And  those  Astrakhan  rug  por 
tieres.  And  Clementina  has  such  a  funny  little 
cough.  I  hope  she  is  stronger  than  she  looks.  Oh, 
I  really  am  getting  attached  to  her,  she  is  so  gentle 
and  high  bred.  Gen.  Pinkney's  brother  was  once 
Minister  to  Bolivia." 

And  then  Joe,  with  the  air  of  a  Monte  Cristo, 
drew  forth  a  ten,  a  five,  a  two  and  a  one  —  all  legal 
tender  notes  —  and  laid  them  beside  Delia's  earn 
ings. 

"  Sold  that  watercolour  of  the  obelisk  to  a  man 
from  Peoria,"  he  announced  overwhelmingly. 

"Don't  joke  with  me,"  said  Delia — "not  from 
Peoria ! " 

"  All  the  way.  I  wish  you  could  see  him,  Dele. 
Fat  man  with  a  woollen  muffler  and  a  quill  tooth 
pick.  He  saw  the  sketch  in  Tinkle's  window  and 
thought  it  was  a  windmill  at  first.  He  was  game, 
though,  and  bought  it  anyhow.  He  ordered  an 
other  —  an  oil  sketch  of  the  Lackawanna  freight  de 
pot  —  to  take  back  with  him.  Music  lessons  !  Oh, 
I  guess  Art  is  still  in  it." 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  kept  on,"  said  Delia,  heartily. 
"You're  bound  to  win,  dear.  Thirty-three  dollars! 


A  Service  of  Love  65 

We  never  had  so  much  to  spend  before.  We'll  have 
oysters  to-night." 

"  And  filet  mignon  with  champignons,"  said  Joe. 
"  Where  is  the  olive  fork?  " 

On  the  next  Saturday  evening  Joe  reached  home 
first.  He  spread  his  $18  on  the  parlour  table  and 
washed  what  seemed  to  be  a  great  deal  of  dark  paint 
from  his  hands. 

Half  an  hour  later  Delia  arrived,  her  right  hand 
tied  up  in  a  shapeless  bundle  of  wraps  and  band 
ages. 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  asked  Joe  after  the  usual  greet 
ings.  Delia  laughed,  but  not  very  joyously. 

"  Clementina,"  she  explained,  "  insisted  upon  a 
Welsh  rabbit  after  her  lesson.  She  is  such  a  queer 
girl.  Welsh  rabbits  at  5  in  the  afternoon.  The 
General  was  there.  You  should  have  seen  him  run 
for  the  chafing  dish,  Joe,  just  as  if  there  wasn't  a 
servant  in  the  house.  I  know  Clementina  isn't  in 
good  health ;  she  is  so  nervous.  In  serving  the  rabbit 
she  spilled  a  great  lot  of  it,  boiling  hot,  over  my 
hand  and  wrist.  It  hurt  awfully,  Joe.  And  the  dear 
girl  was  so  sorry !  But  Gen.  Pinkney !  —  Joe,  that 
old  man  nearly  went  distracted.  He  rushed  down 
stairs  and  sent  somebody  —  they  said  the  furnace 


66  The  Four  Million 

man  or  somebody  in  the  basement  —  out  to  a  drug 
store  for  some  oil  and  things  to  bind  it  up  with.  It 
doesn't  hurt  so  much  now." 

"What's  this?"  asked  Joe,  taking  the  hand  ten 
derly  and  pulling  at  some  white  strands  beneath  the 
bandages. 

"  It's  something  soft,"  said  Delia,  "  that  had  oil 
on  it.  Oh,  Joe,  did  you  sell  another  sketch?  "  she 
had  seen  the  money  on  the  table. 

"Did  I?"  said  Joe;  "just  ask  the  man  from 
Peoria.  He  got  his  depot  to-day,  and  he  isn't  sure 
but  he  thinks  he  wants  another  parkscape  and  a  view 
on  the  Hudson.  What  time  this  afternoon  did  you 
burn  your  hand,  Dele  ?  " 

"  Five  o'clock,  I  think,"  said  Dele,  plaintively. 
"  The  iron  —  I  mean  the  rabbit  came  off  the  fire  about 
that  time.  You  ought  to  have  seen  Gen.  Pinkney, 
Joe,  when  — " 

"  Sit  down  here  a  moment,  Dele,"  said  Joe.  He 
drew  her  to  the  couch,  sat  beside  her  and  put  his  arm 
across  her  shoulders. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  for  the  last  two  weeks, 
Dele?  "  he  asked. 

She  braved  it  for  a  moment  or  two  with  an  eye 
full  of  love  and  stubbornness,  and  murmured  a  phrase 
or  two  vaguely  of  Gen.  Pinkney;  but  at  length 


A  Service  of  Love  67 

down  went  her  head  and  out  came  the  truth  and 
tears. 

"  I  couldn't  get  any  pupils,"  she  confessed.  "  And 
I  couldn't  bear  to  have  you  give  up  your  lessons; 
and  I  got  a  place  ironing  shirts  in  that  big  Twenty- 
fourth  street  laundry.  And  I  think  I  did  very  well 
to  make  up  both  General  Pinkney  and  Clementina, 
don't  you,  Joe?  And  when  a  girl  in  the  laundry  set 
down  a  hot  iron  on  my  hand  this  afternoon  I  was  all 
the  way  home  making  up  that  story  about  the  Welsh 
rabbit.  You're  not  angry,  are  you,  Joe?  And  if 
I  hadn't  got  the  work  you  mightn't  have  sold  your 
sketches  to  that  man  from  Peoria." 

"  He  wasn't  from  Peoria,"  said  Joe,  slowly. 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  matter  where  he  was  from.  How 
clever  you  are,  Joe  —  and  —  kiss  me,  Joe  —  and 
what  made  you  ever  suspect  that  I  wasn't  giving 
music  lessons  to  Clementina?" 

"I  didn't,"  said  Joe,  "until  to-night.  And  I 
wouldn't  have  then,  only  I  sent  up  this  cotton  waste 
and  oil  from  the  engine-room  this  afternoon  for  a 
girl  upstairs  who  had  her  hand  burned  with  a  smooth 
ing-iron.  I've  been  firing  the  engine  in  that  laundry 
for  the  last  two  weeks." 

"  And  then  you  didn't  — " 

"  My  purchaser  from  Peoria,"  said  Joe,  "  and  Gen. 


68  The  Four  Million 

Pinkney  are  both  creations  of  the  same  art; — ibut 
you  wouldn't  call  it  either  painting  or  music." 
And  then  they  both  laughed,  and  Joe  began: 
"  When  one  loves  one's  Art  no  service  seems  — " 
But  Delia  stopped  him  with  her  hand  on  his  lips, 
**  No,"  she  said  — "  just  *  When  one  loves.'  " 


THE  COMING-OUT  OF  MAGGIE 

EVERY  Saturday  night  the  Clover  Leaf  Social 
Club  gave  a  hop  in  the  hall  of  the  Give  and  Take 
Athletic  Association  on  the  East  Side.  In  order  to 
attend  one  of  these  dances  you  must  be  a  member 
of  the  Give  and  Take  —  or,  if  you  belong  to  the 
division  that  starts  off  with  the  right  foot  in  waltz 
ing,  you  must  work  in  Rhinegold's  paper-box  fac 
tory.  Still,  any  Clover  Leaf  was  privileged  to  escort 
or  be  escorted  by  an  outsider  to  a  single  dance.  But 
mostly  each  Give  and  Take  brought  the  paper-box 
girl  that  he  affected;  and  few  strangers  could  boast 
of  having  shaken  a  foot  at  the  regular  hops. 

Maggie  Toole,  on  account  of  her  dull  eyes,  broad 
mouth  and  left-handed  style  of  footwork  in  the  two- 
step,  went  to  the  dances  with  Anna  McCarty  and 
her  "  fellow."  Anna  and  Maggie  worked  side  by 
side  in  the  factory,  and  were  the  greatest  chums  ever. 
So  Anna  always  made  Jimmy  Burns  take  her  by 
Maggie's  house  every  Saturday  night  so  that  her 
friend  could  go  to  the  dance  with  them. 

The  Give  and  Take  Athletic  Association  lived  up 
69 


70  The  Four  Million 

to  its  name.  The  hall  of  the  association  in  Orchard 
street  was  fitted  out  with  muscle-making  inventions. 
With  the  fibres  thus  builded  up  the  members  were 
wont  to  engage  the  police  and  rival  social  and  ath 
letic  organisations  in  joyous  combat.  Between  these 
more  serious  occupations  the  Saturday  night  hopa 
with  the  paper-box  factory  girls  came  as  a  refining 
influence  and  as  an  efficient  screen.  For  sometimes 
the  tip  went  'round,  and  if  you  were  among  the  elect 
that  tiptoed  up  the  dark  back  stairway  you  might 
see  as  neat  and  satisfying  a  little  welter-weight  af" 
fair  to  a  finish  as  ever  happened  inside  the  ropes. 

On  Saturdays  Rhinegold's  paper-box  factory 
closed  at  3  p.  M.  On  one  such  afternoon  Anna  and 
Maggie  walked  homeward  together.  At  Maggie's 
door  Anna  said,  as  usual :  "  Be  ready  at  seven, 
sharp,  Mag ;  and  Jimmy  and  me'll  come  by  for  you." 

But  what  was  this?  Instead  of  the  customary 
humble  and  grateful  thanks  from  the  non-escorted 
one  there  was  to  be  perceived  a  high-poised  head,  a 
prideful  dimpling  at  the  corners  of  a  broad  mouth, 
and  almost  a  sparkle  in  a  dull  brown  eye. 

"  Thanks,  Anna,"  said  Maggie ;  "  but  you  and 
Jimmy  needn't  bother  to-night.  I've  a  gentleman 
friend  that's  coming  'round  to  escort  me  to  the  hop." 

The  comely  Anna  pounced  upon  her  friend,  shook 


The  Coming-out  of  Maggie          71 

her,  chided  and  beseeched  her.  Maggie  Toole  catch 
a  fellow !  Plain,  dear,  loyal,  unattractive  Maggie,  so 
sweet  as  a  chum,  so  unsought  for  a  two-step  or  a 
moonlit  bench  in  the  little  park.  How  was  it  ?  When 
did  it  happen?  Who  was  it? 

"  You'll  see  to-night,"  said  Maggie,  flushed  with 
the  wine  of  the  first  grapes  she  had  gathered  in 
Cupid's  vineyard.  "  He's  swell  all  right.  He's  two 
inches  taller  than  Jimmy,  and  an  up-to-date  dresser. 
I'll  introduce  him,  Anna,  just  as  soon  as  we  get  to 
the  hall." 

Anna  and  Jimmy  were  among  the  first  Clover  L'eafs 
to  arrive  that  evening.  Anna's  eyes  were  brightly 
fixed  upon  the  door  of  the  hall  to  catch  the  first 
glimpse  of  her  friend's  "  catch." 

At  8:30  Miss  Toole  swept  into  the  hall  with  her 
escort.  Quickly  her  triumphant  eye  discovered  her 
chum  under  the  wing  of  her  faithful  Jimmy. 

"  Oh,  gee !  "  cried  Anna,  "  Mag  ain't  made  a  hit  — 
oh,  no!  Swell  fellow?  well,  I  guess!  Style?  Look 
at  'urn." 

"  Go  as  far  as  you  like,"  said  Jimmy,  with  sand 
paper  in  his  voice.  "  Cop  him  out  if  you  want  him. 
These  new  guys  always  win  out  with  the  push.  Don't 
mind  me.  He  don't  squeeze  all  the  limes,  I  guess. 
Huh!" 


72  The  Four  Million 

"  Shut  up,  Jimmy.  You  know  what  I  mean.  I'm 
glad  for  Mag.  First  fellow  she  ever  had.  Oh,  here 
they  come." 

Across  the  floor  Maggie  sailed  like  a  coquettish 
yacht  convoyed  by  a  stately  cruiser.  And  truly, 
her  companion  justified  the  encomiums  of  the  faithful 
chum.  He  stood  two  inches  talle  than  the  average 
Give  and  Take  athlete ;  his  dark  hair  curled ;  his  eyes 
and  his  teeth  flashed  whenever  he  bestowed  his  fre 
quent  smiles.  The  young  men  of  the  Clover  Leaf 
Club  pinned  not  their  faith  to  the  graces  of  person 
as  much  as  they  did  to  its  prowess,  its  achievements 
in  hand-to-hand  conflicts,  and  its  preservation  from 
the  legal  duress  that  constantly  menaced  it.  The 
member  of  the  association  who  would  bind  a  paper- 
box  maiden  to  his  conquering  chariot  scorned  to 
employ  Beau  Brummel  airs.  They  were  not  consid 
ered  honourable  methods  of  warfare.  The  swell 
ing  biceps,  the  coat  straining  at  its  buttons  over  the 
chest,  the  air  of  conscious  conviction  of  the  super- 
eminence  of  the  male  in  the  cosmogony  of  creation, 
even  a  calm  display  of  bow  legs  as  subduing  and 
enchanting  agents  in  the  gentle  tourneys  of  Cupid 
—  these  were  the  approved  arms  and  ammunition  of 
the  Clover  Leaf  gallants.  They  viewed,  then,  the 


The  Coming-out  of  Maggie  73 

genuflexions  and  alluring  poses  of  this  visitor  with 
their  chins  at  a  new  angle. 

"A  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Terry  O'Sullivan,"  was 
Maggie's  formula  of  introduction.  She  led  him 
around  the  room,  presenting  him  to  each  new-arriving 
Clover  Leaf.  Almost  was  she  pretty  now,  with  the 
unique  luminosity  in  her  eyes  that  comes  to  a  girl 
with  her  first  suitor  and  a  kitten  with  its  first  mouse. 

"  Maggie  Toole's  got  a  fellow  at  last,"  was  the 
word  that  went  round  among  the  paper-box  girls. 
"  Pipe  Mag's  floor-walker  " —  thus  the  Give  and 
Takes  expressed  their  indifferent  contempt. 

Usually  at  the  weekly  hops  Maggie  kept  a  spot  on 
the  wall  warm  with  her  back.  She  felt  and  showed 
so  much  gratitude  whenever  a  self-sacrificing  partner 
invited  her  to  dance  that  his  pleasure  was  cheapened 
and  diminished.  She  had  even  grown  used  to  no 
ticing  Anna  joggle  the  reluctant  Jimmy  with  her 
elbow  as  a  signal  for  him  to  invite  her  chum  to  walk 
over  his  feet  through  a  two-step. 

But  to-night  the  pumpkin  had  turned  to  a  coach 
and  six.  Terry  O'Sullivan  was  a  victorious  Prince 
Charming,  and  Maggie  Toole  winged  her  first  but 
terfly  flight.  And  though  our  tropes  of  fairyland 
be  mixed  with  those  of  entomology  they  shall  not  spill 


74  The  Four  Million 

one  drop  of  ambrosia  from  the  rose-crowned  melody 
of  Maggie's  one  perfect  night. 

The  girls  besieged  her  for  introductions  to  her 
"  fellow."  The  Clover  Leaf  young  men,  after  two 
years  of  blindness,  suddenly  perceived  charms  in  Miss 
Toole.  They  flexed  their  compelling  muscles  before 
her  and  bespoke  her  for  the  dance. 

Thus  she  scored;  but  to  Terry  O'Sullivan  the 
honours  of  the  evening  fell  thick  and  fast.  He  shook 
his  curls;  he  smiled  and  went  easily  through  the 
seven  motions  for  acquiring  grace  in  your  own  room 
before  an  open  window  ten  minutes  each  day.  He 
danced  like  a  faun;  he  introduced  manner  and  style 
and  atmosphere;  his  words  came  trippingly  upon  his 
tongue,  and  —  he  waltzed  twice  in  succession  with  the 
paper-box  girl  that  Dempsey  Donovan  brought. 

Dempsey  was  the  leader  of  the  association.  He 
wore  a  dress  suit,  and  could  chin  the  bar  twice  with 
one  hand.  He  was  one  of  "  Big  Mike  "  O'Sullivan's 
lieutenants,  and  was  never  troubled  by  trouble.  No 
cop  dared  to  arrest  him.  Whenever  he  broke  a  push 
cart  man's  head  or  shot  a  member  of  the  Heinrick 
B.  Sweeney  Outing  and  Literary  Association  in  the 
kneecap,  an  officer  would  drop  around  and  say: 

"  The  Cap'n  *d  like  to  see  ye  a  few  minutes  round 
to  the  office  whin  ye  have  time,  Dempsey,  me  boy." 


The  Coming-out  of  Maggie          75 

But  there  would  be  sundry  gentlemen  there  with 
large  gold  fob  chains  and  black  cigars;  and  some 
body  would  tell  a  funny  story,  and  then  Dempsey 
would  go  back  and  work  half  an  hour  with  the  six- 
pound  dumbbells.  So,  doing  a  tight-rope  act  on  a 
wire  stretched  across  Niagara  was  a  safe  terpsicho- 
rean  performance  compared  with  waltzing  twice  with 
Dempsey  Donovan's  paper-box  girl.  At  10  o'clock 
the  jolly  round  face  of  "  Big  Mike "  O'Sullivan 
shone  at  the  door  for  five  minutes  upon  the  scene. 
He  always  looked  in  for  five  minutes,  smiled  at  the 
girls  and  handed  out  real  perfectos  to  the  delighted 
boys. 

Dempsey  Donovan  was  at  his  elbow  instantly,  talk 
ing  rapidly.  "  Big  Mike  "  looked  carefully  at  the 
dancers,  smiled,  shook  his  head  and  departed. 

The  music  stopped.  The  dancers  scattered  to  the 
chairs  along  the  walls.  Terry  O'Sullivan,  with  his 
entrancing  bow,  relinquished  a  pretty  girl  in  blue 
to  her  partner  and  started  back  to  find  Maggie. 
Dempsey  intercepted  him  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

Some  fine  instinct  that  Rome  must  have  bequeathed 
to  us  caused  nearly  every  one  to  turn  and  look  at 
them  —  there  was  a  subtle  feeling  that  two  gladiators 
had  met  in  the  arena.  Two  or  three  Give  and  Takes 
with  tight  coat  sleeves  drew  nearer. 


76  The  Four  Million 

"  One  moment,  Mr.  O'Sullivan,"  said  Dempsey. 
"  I  hope  you're  enjoying  yourself.  Where  did  you 
say  you  lived  ?  " 

The  two  gladiators  were  well  matched.  Dempsey 
had,  perhaps,  ten  pounds  of  weight  to  give  away. 
The  O'Sullivan  had  breadth  with  quickness.  Demp 
sey  had  a  glacial  eye,  a  dominating  slit  of  a  mouth, 
an  indestructible  jaw,  a  complexion  like  a  belle's  and 
the  coolness  of  a  champion.  The  visitor  showed  more 
fire  in  his  contempt  and  less  control  over  his  con 
spicuous  sneer.  They  were  enemies  by  the  law  writ 
ten  when  the  rocks  were  molten.  They  were  each 
too  splendid,  too  mighty,  too  incomparable  to  divide 
pre-eminence.  One  only  must  survive. 

"  I  live  on  Grand,"  said  O'Sullivan,  insolently ; 
"  and  no  trouble  to  find  me  at  home.  Where  do 
you  live?  " 

Dempsey  ignored  the  question. 

"  You  say  your  name's  O'Sullivan,"  he  went  on. 
"  Well,  '  Big  Mike '  says  he  never  saw  you  before." 

"  Lots  of  things  he  never  saw,"  said  the  favourite 
of  the  hop. 

"  As  a  rule,"  went  on  Dempsey,  huskily  sweet, 
"  O'Sullivans  in  this  district  know  one  another.  \  ou 
escorted  one  of  our  lady  members  here,  and  we  want 
a  chance  to  make  good.  If  you've  got  a  family  tree 


The  Coming-out  of  Maggie  77 

let's  see  a  few  historical  O'Sullivan  buds  come  out  on 
it.  Or  do  you  want  us  to  dig  it  out  of  you  by  the 
roots?  " 

"  Suppose  you  mind  your  own  business,"  suggested 
O'Sullivan,  blandly. 

Dempsey's  eye  brightened.  He  held  up  an  in 
spired  forefinger  as  though  a  brilliant  idea  had  struck 
him. 

"  I've  got  it  now,"  he  said  cordially.  "  It  was  just 
a  little  mistake.  You  ain't  no  O'Sullivan.  You  are 
a  ring-tailed  monkey.  Excuse  us  for  not  recognising 
you  at  first." 

O' Sullivan's  eye  flashed.  He  made  a  quick  move 
ment,  but  Andy  Geoghan  was  ready  and  caught  his 
arm. 

Dempsey  nodded  at  Andy  and  William  McMahan, 
the  secretary  of  the  club,  and  walked  rapidly  toward 
a  door  at  the  rear  of  the  hall.  Two  other  members 
of  the  Give  and  Take  Association  swiftly  joined  the 
little  group.  Terry  O'Sullivan  was  now  in  the  hands 
of  the  Board  of  Rules  and  Social  Referees.  They 
spoke  to  him  briefly  and  softly,  and  conducted  him 
out  through  the  same  door  at  the  rear. 

This  movement  on  the  part  of  the  Clover  Leaf 
members  requires  a  word  of  elucidation.  Back  of 
the  association  hall  was  a  smaller  room  rented  by  the 


78  The  Four  Million 

club.  In  this  room  personal  difficulties  that  arose 
on  the  ballroom  floor  were  settled,  man  to  man,  with 
the  weapons  of  nature,  under  the  supervision  of  the 
board.  No  lady  could  say  that  she  had  witnessed  a 
fight  at  a  Clover  Leaf  hop  in  several  years.  Its 
gentlemen  members  guaranteed  that. 

So  easily  and  smoothly  had  Dempsey  and  the 
board  done  their  preliminary  work  that  many  in  the 
hall  had  not  noticed  the  checking  of  the  fascinating 
O'Sullivan's  social  triumph.  Among  these  was  Mag 
gie.  She  looked  about  for  her  escort. 

"  Smoke  up !  "  said  Rose  Cassidy.  "  Wasn't  you 
on?  Demps  Donovan  picked  a  scrap  with  your  Liz 
zie-boy,  and  they've  waltzed  out  to  the  slaughter 
room  with  him.  How's  my  hair  look  done  up  this 
.way,  Mag?  " 

Maggie  laid  a  hand  on  the  bosom  of  her  cheese 
cloth  waist. 

"  Gone  to  fight  with  Dempsey !  "  she  said,  breath 
lessly.  "  They've  got  to  be  stopped.  Dempsey 
Donovan  can't  fight  him.  Why,  he'll  —  he'll  kill 
him!" 

"Ah,  what  do  you  care?"  said  Rosa.  "Don't 
some  of  'em  fight  every  hop  ?  " 

But  Maggie  was  off,  darting  her  zig-zag  way 
through  the  maze  of  dancers.  She  burst  through  the 


The  Coming-out  of  Maggie          79 

rear  door  into  the  dark  hall  and  then  threw  her  solid 
shoulder  against  the  door  of  the  room  of  single  com 
bat.  It  gave  way,  and  in  the  instant  that  she  en 
tered  her  eye  caught  the  scene  —  the  Board  standing 
about  with  open  watches;  Dempsey  Donovan  in  his 
shirt  sleeves  dancing,  light-footed,  with  the  wary 
grace  of  the  modern  pugilist,  within  easy  reach  of 
his  adversary ;  Terry  O'Sullivan  standing  with  arms 
folded  and  a  murderous  look  in  his  dark  eyes.  And 
without  slacking  the  speed  of  her  entrance  she  leaped 
forward  with  a  scream  —  leaped  in  time  to  catch  and 
hang  upon  the  arm  of  O'Sullivan  that  was  suddenly 
uplifted,  and  to  whisk  from  it  the  long,  bright  sti 
letto  that  he  had  drawn  from  his  bosom. 

The  knife  fell  and  rang  upon  the  floor.  Cold  steel 
drawn  in  the  rooms  of  the  Give  and  Take  Associa 
tion!  Such  a  thing  had  never  happened  before. 
Every  one  stood  motionless  for  a  minute.  Andy 
Geoghan  kicked  the  stiletto  with  the  toe  of  his  shoe 
curiously,  like  an  antiquarian  who  has  come  upon 
some  ancient  weapon  unknown  to  his  learning. 

And  then  O'Sullivan  hissed  something  unintelligi 
ble  between  his  teeth.  Dempsey  and  the  board 
exchanged  looks.  And  then  Dempsey  looked  at 
O'Sullivan  without  anger,  as  one  looks  at  a  stray  dog, 
and  nodded  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  door. 


80  The  Four  Million 

"  The  back  stairs,  Giuseppi,"  he  said,  briefly. 
**  Somebody'll  pitch  your  hat  down  after  you." 

Maggie  walked  up  to  Dempsey  Donovan.  There 
was  a  brilliant  spot  of  red  in  her  cheeks,  down  which 
slow  tears  were  running.  But  she  looked  him  bravely 
in  the  eye. 

"  I  knew  it,  Dempsey,"  she  said,  as  her  eyes  grew 
dull  even  in  their  tears.  "  I  knew  he  was  a  Guinea. 
His  name's  Tony  Spinelli.  I  hurried  in  when  they 
told  me  you  and  him  was  scrappin'.  Them  Guineas 
always  carries  knives.  But  you  don't  understand, 
Dempsey.  I  never  had  a  fellow  in  my  life.  I  got 
tired  of  comin'  with  Anna  and  Jimmy  every  night,, 
so  I  fixed  it  with  him  to  call  himself  O'Sullivan,  and 
brought  him  along.  I  knew  there'd  be  nothin'  doin' 
for  him  if  he  came  as  a  Dago.  I  guess  I'll  resign 
from  the  club  now." 

Dempsey  turned  to  Andy  Geoghan. 

"  Chuck  that  cheese  slicer  out  of  the  window,"  he 
said,  "  and  tell  'em  inside  that  Mr.  O'Sullivan  has 
had  a  telephone  message  to  go  down  to  Tammany 
Hall." 

And  then  he  turned  back  to  Maggie. 

"  Say,  Mag,"  he  said,  "  I'll  see  you  home.  And 
how  about  next  Saturday  night?  Will  you  come  to 
the  hop  with  me  if  I  call  around  for  you  ?  " 


The  Coming-out  of  Maggie          81 

It    was    remarkable    how    quickly    Maggie's    eyes 
could  change  from  dull  to  a  shining  brown. 

"  With  you,  Dempsey?  "  she  stammered. 
—  will  a  duck  swim?  r 


MAN  ABOUT  TOWN; 

JLHERE  were  two  or  three  things  that  I  wanted 
to  know.  I  do  not  care  about  a  mystery.  So  I 
began  to  inquire. 

It  took  me  two  weeks  to  find  out  what  women  carry 
in  dress  suit  cases.  And  then  I  began  to  ask  why 
a  mattress  is  made  in  two  pieces.  This  serious  query 
was  at  first  received  with  suspicion  because  it  sounded 
like  a  conundrum.  I  was  at  last  assured  that  its 
double  form  of  construction  was  designed  to  make 
lighter  the  burden  of  woman,  who  makes  up  beds.  I 
was  so  foolish  as  to  persist,  begging  to  know  why, 
then,  they  were  not  made  in  two  equal  pieces ;  where 
upon  I  was  shunned. 

The  third  draught  that  I  craved  from  the  fount 
of  knowledge  was  enlightenment  concerning  the  char 
acter  known  as  A  Man  About  Town.  He  was  more 
vague  in  my  mind  than  a  type  should  be.  We  must 
have  a  concrete  idea  of  anything,  even  if  it  be  an 
imaginary  idea,  before  we  can  comprehend  it.  Now, 
I  have  a  mental  picture  of  John  Doe  that  is  as  clear 
as  a  steel  engraving.  His  eyes  are  weak  blue; 
he  wears  a  brown  vest  and  a  shiny  black  serge  coat. 

89 


Man  r About  Town  83 

He  stands  always  in  the  sunshine  chewing  something ; 
and  he  keeps  half-shutting  his  pocket  knife  and  open 
ing  it  again  with  his  thumb.  And,  if  the  Man  Higher 
Up  is  ever  found,  take  my  assurance  for  it,  he  will 
be  a  large,  pale  man  with  blue  wristlets  showing  under 
his  cuffs,  and  he  will  be  sitting  to  have  his  shoes  pol 
ished  within  sound  of  a  bowling  alley,  and  there  will 
be  somewhere  about  him  turquoises. 

But  the  canvas  of  my  imagination,  when  it  came 
to  limning  the  Man  About  Town,  was  blank.  I  fan 
cied  that  he  had  a  detachable  sneer  (like  the  smile 
of  the  Cheshire  cat)  and  attached  cuffs ;  and  that  was 
all.  Whereupon  I  asked  a  newspaper  reporter  about 
him. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  a  *  Man  About  Town  '  is  some 
thing  between  a  *  rounder '  and  a  *  clubman.'  He 
isn't  exactly  —  well,  he  fits  in  between  Mrs.  Fish's 
receptions  and  private  boxing  bouts.  He  doesn't  — 
well,  he  doesn't  belong  either  to  the  Lotos  Club  or  to 
the  Jerry  McGeogheghan  Galvanised  Iron  Workers' 
Apprentices'  Left  Hook  Chowder  Association.  I 
don't  exactly  know  how  to  describe  him  to  you. 
You'll  see  him  everywhere  there's  anything  doing. 
Yes,  I  suppose  he's  a  type.  Dress  clothes  every 
evening;  knows  the  ropes;  calls  every  policeman  and 
waiter  in  town  by  their  first  names.  No;  he  never 


84  The  Four  Million 

travels  with  the  hydrogen  derivatives.  You  gen 
erally  see  him  alone  or  with  another  man." 

My  friend  the  reporter  left  me,  and  I  wandered 
further  afield.  By  this  time  the  3126  electric  lights 
on  the  Rialto  were  alight.  People  passed,  but  they 
held  me  not.  Paphian  eyes  rayed  upon  me,  and  left 
me  unscathed.  Diners,  heimgangers,  shop-girls,  con 
fidence  men,  panhandlers,  actors,  highwaymen,  mil 
lionaires  and  outlanders  hurried,  skipped,  strolled, 
sneaked,  swaggered  and  scurried  by  me;  but  I  took 
no  note  of  them.  I  knew  them  all;  I  had  read  their 
hearts;  they  had  served.  I  wanted  my  Man  About 
Town.  He  was  a  type,  and  to  drop  him  would  be  an 
error  —  a  typograph  —  but  no !  let  us  continue. 

Let  us  continue  with  a  moral  digression.  To  see  a 
family  reading  the  Sunday  paper  gratifies.  The  sec 
tions  have  been  separated.  Papa  is  earnestly  scan 
ning  the  page  that  pictures  the  young  lady  exercising 
before  an  open  window,  and  bending  —  but  there, 
there!  Mamma  is  interested  in  trying  to  guess  the 
missing  letters  in  the  word  N — w  Yo — k.  The  oldest 
girls  are  eagerly  perusing  the  financial  reports,  for  a 
certain  young  man  remarked  last  Sunday  night  that 
he  had  taken  a  flyer  in  Q.,  X.  &  Z.  Willie,  the 
eighteen-year-old  son,  who  attends  the  New  York  pub- 


Man  About  Town  85 

lie  school,  is  absorbed  in  the  weekly  article  describing 
how  to  make  over  an  old  skirt,  for  he  hopes  to  take 
a  prize  in  sewing  on  graduation  day. 

Grandma  is  holding  to  the  comic  supplement  witH 
a  two-hours'  grip ;  and  little  Tottie,  the  baby,  is  rock 
ing  along  the  best  she  can  with  the  real  estate  trans 
fers.  This  view  is  intended  to  be  reassuring,  for  it 
is  desirable  that  a  few  lines  of  this  story  be  skipped. 
For  it  introduces  strong  drink. 

I  went  into  a  cafe  to  —  and  while  it  was  being 
mixed  I  asked  the  man  who  grabs  up  your  hot 
Scotch  spoon  as  soon  as  you  lay  it  down  what  he 
understood  by  the  term,  epithet,  description,  desig 
nation,  characterisation  or  appellation,  viz. :  a  "  Man 
About  Town." 

"  Why,"  said  he,  carefully,  "  it  means  a  fly  guy 
that's  wise  to  the  all-night  push  —  see  ?  It's  a  hot 
sport  that  you  can't  bump  to  the  rail  anywhere  be 
tween  the  Flatirons: — -see?  I  guess  that's  about 
what  it  means." 

I  thanked  him  and  departed. 

On  the  sidewalk  a  Salvation  lassie  shook  her  con 
tribution  receptacle  gently  against  my  waistcoat 
pocket. 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  I  asked  her,  "  if 


86  The  Four  Million 

you  ever  meet  with  the  character  commonly  denomi 
nated  as  *  A  Man  About  Town  '  during  your  daily 
wanderings  ?  " 

!  "I  think  I  know  whom  you  mean,"  she  answered, 
with  a  gentle  smile.  "  We  see  them  in  the  same 
places  night  after  night.  They  are  the  devil's  body 
guard,  and  if  the  soldiers  of  any  army  are  as  faith 
ful  as  they  are,  their  commanders  are  well  served. 
We  go  among  them,  diverting  a  few  pennies  from 
( their  wickedness  to  the  Lord's  service." 

She  shook  the  box  again  and  I  dropped  a  dime 
into  it. 

In  front  of  a  glittering  hotel  a  friend  of  mine, 
a  critic,  was  climbing  from  a  cab.  He  seemed  at 
leisure ;  and  I  put  my  question  to  him.  He  answered 
me  conscientiously,  as  I  was  sure  he  would. 

"  There  is  a  type  of  '  Man  About  Town  '  in  New 
York,"  he  answered.  "  The  term  is  quite  familiar 
to  me,  but  I  don't  think  I  was  ever  called  upon  to  de 
fine  the  character  before.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
point  you  out  an  exact  specimen.  I  would  say,  off 
hand,  that  it  is  a  man  who  had  a  hopeless  case  of 
the  peculiar  New  York  disease  of  wanting  to  see  and 
know.  At  6  o'clock  each  day  life  begins  with  him. 
He  follows  rigidly  the  conventions  of  dress  and  man 
ners;  but  in  the  business  of  poking  his  nose  into 


Man  About  Town  87 

places  where  he  does  not  belong  he  could  give  point 
ers  to  a  civet  cat  or  a  jackdaw.  He  is  the  man 
who  has  chased  Bohemia  about  the  town  from  raths 
keller  to  roof  garden  and  from  Hester  street  to  Har 
lem  until  you  can't  find  a  place  in  the  city  where  they 
don't  cut  the>>  spaghetti  with  a  knife.  Your  '  Man 
About  Town '  has  done  that.  He  is  always  on  the 
scent  of  something  new.  He  is  curiosity,  impudence 
and  omnipresence.  Hansoms  were  made  for  him, 
and  gold-banded  cigars ;  and  the  curse  of  music  at 
dinner.  There  are  not  so  many  of  him;  but  his 
minority  report  is  adopted  everywhere. 

"I'm  glad  you  brought  up  the  subject;  I've  felt 
the  influence  of  this  nocturnal  blight  upon  our  city, 
but  I  never  thought  to  analyse  it  before.  I  can  see 
now  that  your  '  Man  About  Town '  should  have  been 
classified  long  ago.  In  his  wake  spring  up  wine 
agents  and  cloak  models ;  and  the  orchestra  plays 
*  Let's  All  Go  Up  to  Maud's  '  for  him,  by  request,  in 
stead  of  Handel.  He  makes  his  rounds  every  even 
ing;  while  you  and  I  see  the  elephant  once  a  week. 
When  the  cigar  store  is  raided,  he  winks  at  the  officer, 
familiar  with  his  ground,  and  walks  away  immune, 
while  you  and  I  search  among  the  Presidents  for 
names,  and  among  the  stars  for  addresses  to  give  the 
desk  sergeant." 


88  The  Four  Million 

My  friend,  the  critic,  paused  to  acquire  breath  for 
fresh  eloquence.  I  seized  my  advantage. 

"  You  have  classified  him,"  I  cried  with  joy. 
"  You  have  painted  his  portrait  in  the  gallery  of  city 
types.  But  I  must  meet  one  face  to  face.  I  must 
study  the  Man  About  Town  at  first  hand.  Where 
shall  I  find  him  ?  How  shall  I  know  him  ?  " 

Without  seeming  to  hear  me,  the  critic  went  on. 
And  his  cab-driver  was  waiting  for  his  fare,  too. 

"  He  is  the  sublimated  essence  of  Butt-in ;  the  re 
fined,  intrinsic  extract  of  Rubber;  the  concentrated, 
purified,  irrefutable,  unavoidable  spirit  of  Curiosity 
and  Inquisitiveness.  A  new  sensation  is  the  breath 
in  his  nostrils;  when  his  experience  is  exhausted  he 
explores  new  fields  with  the  indefatigability  of 
a—  " 

"  Excuse  me,"  I  interrupted,  "  but  can  you  pro 
duce  one  of  this  type?  It  is  a  new  thing  to  me.  I 
must  study  it.  I  will  search  the  town  over  until  I 
find  one.  Its  habitat  must  be  here  on  Broadway." 

"  I  am  about  to  dine  here,"  said  my  friend. 
"  Come  inside,  and  if  there  is  a  Man  About  Town 
present  I  will  point  him  out  to  you.  I  know  most 
of  the  regular  patrons  here." 

"  I  am  not  dining  yet,"  I  said  to  him.  "  You  will 
excuse  me.  I  am  going  to  find  my  Man  About  Town 


S9 

this  night  if  I  have  to  rake  New  York  from  the  Bat 
tery  to  Little  Coney  Island." 

I  left  the  hotel  and  walked  down  Broadway.  The 
pursuit  of  my  type  gave  a  pleasant  savour  of  life  and 
interest  to  the  air  I  breathed.  I  was  glad  to  be  in  a 
city  so  great,  so  complex  and  diversified.  Leisurely" 
and  with  something  of  an  air  I  strolled  along  with 
my  heart  expanding  at  the  thought  that  I  was  a 
citizen  of  great  Gotham,  a  sharer  in  its  magnificence 
and  pleasures,  a  partaker  in  its  glory  and  prestige. 

I  turned  to  cross  the  street.  I  heard  something 
buzz  like  a  bee,  and  then  I  took  a  long,  pleasant  ride 
with  Santos-Dumont. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  I  remembered  a  smell  of 
gasoline,  and  I  said  aloud :  "  Hasn't  it  passed  yet  ?  " 

A  hospital  nurse  laid  a  hand  that  was  not  particu 
larly  soft  upon  my  brow  that  was  not  at  all  fevered. 
A  young  doctor  came  along,  grinned,  and  handed  me 
a  morning  newspaper. 

"Want  to  see  how  it  happened?  "  he  asked  cheer 
ily.  I  read  the  article.  Its  headlines  began  where 
I  heard  the  buzzing  leave  off  the  night  before.  It 
closed  with  these  lines : 

" Bellevue  Hospital,  where  it  was  said  that  his 

injuries  were  not  serious.  He  appeared  to  be  a  typi 
cal  Man  About  Town." 


THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM 

ON  his  bench  in  Madison  Square  Soapy  moved  un 
easily.  When  wild  geese  honk  high  of  nights,  and 
when  women  without  sealskin  coats  grow  kind  to  their 
husbands,  and  when  Soapy  moves  uneasily  on  his 
bench  in  the  park,  you  may  know  that  winter  is  near 
at  hand. 

A  dead  leaf  fell  in  Soapy's  lap.  That  was  Jack 
Frost's  card.  Jack  is  kind  to  the  regular  denizens  of 
Madison  Square,  and  gives  fair  warning  of  his  annual 
call.  At  the  corners  of  four  streets  he  hands  his 
pasteboard  to  the  North  Wind,  footman  of  the  man 
sion  of  All  Outdoors,  so  that  the  inhabitants  thereof 
may  make  ready. 

Soapy's  mind  became  cognisant  of  the  fact  that 
the  time  had  come  for  him  to  resolve  himself  into  a 
singular  Committee  of  Ways  and  Means  to  provide 
against  the  coming  rigour.  And  therefore  he  moved 
uneasily  on  his  bench. 

The  hibernatorial  ambitions  of  Soapy  were  not  of 
the  highest.  In  them  there  were  no  considerations 

of  Mediterranean  cruises,  of  soporific  Southern  skies 

00 


The  Cop  and  the  Anthem  91 

or  drifting  in  the  Vesuvian  Bay.     Three  months  on 
the  Island  was  what  his  soul  craved.     Three  months 
of  assured  board  and  bed  and  congenial  company,  • 
safe  from  Boreas  and  bluecoats,  seemed  to  Soapy  the 
essence  of  things  desirable. 

For  years  the  hospitable  Blackwell's  had  been  his 
winter  quarters.  Just  as  his  more  fortunate  fellow 
New  Yorkers  had  bought  their  tickets  to  Palm  Beach 
and  the  Riviera  each  winter,  so  Soapy  had  made  his 
humble  arrangements  for  his  annual  hegira  to  the 
Island.  And  now  the  time  was  come.  On  the  pre 
vious  night  three  Sabbath  newspapers,  distributed 
beneath  his  coat,  about  his  ankles  and  over  his  lap, 
had  failed  to  repulse  the  cold  as  he  slept  on  his 
bench  near  the  spurting  fountain  in  the  ancient 
square.  So  the  Island  loomed  big  and  timely  in 
Soapy's  mind.  He  scorned  the  provisions  made  in 
the  name  of  charity  for  the  city's  dependents.  In 
Soapy's  opinion  the  Law  was  more  benign  than  Phi 
lanthropy.  There  was  an  endless  round  of  institu 
tions,  municipal  and  eleemosynary,  on  which  he  might 
set  out  and  receive  lodging  and  food  accordant  with 
the  simple  life.  But  to  one  of  Soapy's  proud  spirit 
the  gifts  of  charity  are  encumbered.  If  not  in  coin 
you  must  pay  in  humiliation  of  spirit  for  every  bene 
fit  received  at  the  hands  of  philanthropy.  As  Caesar 


92  The  Four  Million 

had  his  Brutus,  every  bed  of  charity  must  have  its 
toll  of  a  bath,  every  loaf  of  bread  its  compensation  of 
a  private  and  personal  inquisition.  Wherefore  it  is 
better  to  be  a  guest  of  the  law,  which  though  con 
ducted  by  rules,  does  not  meddle  unduly  with  a  gen 
tleman's  private  affairs. 

Soapy,  having  decided  to  go  to  the  Island,  at  once 
set  about  accomplishing  his  desire.  There  were  many 
easy  ways  of  doing  this.  The  pleasantest  was  to  dine 
luxuriously  at  some  erpensive  restaurant;  and  then, 
after  declaring  insolvency,  be  handed  over  quietly  and 
without  uproar  to  a  policeman.  An  accommodating 
magistrate  would  do  the  rest. 

Soapy  left  his  bench  and  strolled  out  of  the  square 
and  across  the  level  sea  of  asphalt,  where  Broadway 
and  Fifth  Avenue  flow  together.  Up  Broadway  he 
turned,  and  halted  at  a  glittering  cafe,  where  are 
gathered  together  nightly  the  choicest  products  of  the 
grape,  the  silkworm  and  the  protoplasm. 

Soapy  had  confidence  in  himself  from  the  lowest 
button  of  his  vest  upward.  He  was  shaven,  and  his 
coat  was  decent  and  his  neat  black,  ready-tied  four- 
in-hand  had  been  presented  to  him  by  a  lady  mis 
sionary  on  Thanksgiving  Day.  If  he  could  reach  a 
table  in  the  restaurant  unsuspected  success  would  be 
Jhis.  The  portion  of  him  that  would  show  above  the 


The  Cop  and  the  Anthem  93 

table  would  raise  no  doubt  in  the  waiter's  mind.  A 
roasted  mallard  duck,  thought  Soapy,  would  be  about 
the  thing  —  with  a  bottle  of  Chablis,  and  then  Ca- 
membert,  a  demi-tasse  and  a  cigar.  One  dollar  for 
the  cigar  would  be  enough.  The  total  would  not  be 
so  high  as  to  call  forth  any  supreme  manifestation  of 
revenge  from  the  cafe  management ;  and  yet  the  meat 
would  leave  him  filled  and  happy  for  the  journey  to 
his  winter  refuge. 

But  as  Soapy  set  foot  inside  the  restaurant  door 
the  head  waiter's  eye  fell  upon  his  frayed  trousers 
and  decadent  shoes.  Strong  and  ready  hands  turned 
him  about  and  conveyed  him  in  silence  and  haste  to 
the  sidewalk  and  averted  the  ignoble  fate  of  the  men 
aced  mallard. 

Soapy  turned  off  Broadway.  It  seemed  that  his 
route  to  the  coveted  island  was  not  to  be  an  epicurean 
one.  Some  other  way  of  entering  limbo  must  be 
thought  of. 

At  a  corner  of  Sixth  Avenue  electric  lights  and 
cunningly  displayed  wares  behind  plate-glass  made  a 
shop  window  conspicuous.  Soapy  took  a  cobblestone 
and  dashed  it  through  the  glass.  People  came  run 
ning  around  the  corner,  a  policeman  in  the  lead. 
Soapy  stood  still,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
smiled  at  the  sight  of  brass  buttons. 


94  The  Four  Million 

"  Where's  the  man  that  done  that?  "  inquired  the 
officer  excitedly. 

"  Don't  you  figure  out  that  I  might  have  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  it?  "  said  Soapy,  not  without  sar 
casm,  but  friendly,  as  one  greets  good  fortune. 

The  policeman's  mind  refused  to  accept  Soapy 
even  as  a  clue.  Men  who  smash  windows  do  not  re 
main  to  parley  with  the  law's  minions.  They  take 
to  their  heels.  The  policeman  saw  a  man  half  way 
down  the  block  running  to  catch  a  car.  With  drawn 
club  he  joined  in  the  pursuit.  Soapy,  with  disgust 
in  his  heart,  loafed  along,  twice  unsuccessful. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  was  a  restaurant 
of  no  great  pretensions.  It  catered  to  large  appe 
tites  and  modest  purses.  Its  crockery  and  atmos 
phere  were  thick;  its  soup  and  napery  thin.  Into 
this  place  Soapy  took  his  accusive  shoes  and  telltale 
trousers  without  challenge.  At  a  table  he  sat  and 
consumed  beefsteak,  flapjacks,  doughnuts  and  pie. 
And  then  to  the  waiter  he  betrayed  the  fact  that  the 
minutest  coin  and  himself  were  strangers. 

"  Now,  get  busy  and  call  a  cop,"  said  Soapy. 
"  And  don't  keep  a  gentleman  waiting." 

"  No  cop  for  youse,"  said  the  waiter,  with  a  voice 
like  butter  cakes  and  an  eye  like  the  cherry  in  a  Man 
hattan  cocktail.  "  Hey,  Con !  " 


The  Cop  and  the  Anthem  95 

Neatly  upon  his  left  ear  on  the  callous  pavement 
two  waiters  pitched  Soapy.  He  arose,  joint  by  joint, 
as  a  carpenter's  rule  opens,  and  beat  the  dust  from 
his  clothes.  Arrest  seemed  but  a  rosy  dream.  The 
Island  seemed  very  far  away.  A  policeman  who 
stood  before  a  drug  store  two  doors  away  laughed 
and  walked  down  the  street. 

Five  blocks  Soapy  travelled  before  his  courage  per 
mitted  him  to  woo  capture  again.  This  time  the 
opportunity  presented  what  he  fatuously  termed  to 
himself  a  "  cinch."  A  young  woman  of  a  modest  and 
pleasing  guise  was  standing  before  a  show  window 
gazing  with  sprightly  interest  at  its  display  of  shav 
ing  mugs  and  inkstands,  and  two  yards  from  the 
window  a  large  policeman  of  severe  demeanour  leaned 
against  a  water  plug. 

It  was  Soapy's  design  to  assume  the  role  of  the 
despicable  and  execrated  "  masher."  The  refined  and 
elegant  appearance  of  his  victim  and  the  contiguity 
of  the  conscientious  cop  encouraged  him  to  believe 
that  he  would  soon  feel  the  pleasant  official  clutch 
upon  his  arm  that  would  insure  his  winter  quarters 
on  the  right  little,  tight  little  isle. 

Soapy  straightened  the  lady  missionary's  ready- 
made  tie,  dragged  his  shrinking  cuffs  into  the  open, 
set  his  hat  at  a  killing  cant  and  sidled  toward  the 


96  The  Four  Million 

young  woman.  He  made  eyes  at  her,  was  taken  with 
sudden  coughs  and  "  hems,"  smiled,  smirked  and  went 
brazenly  through  the  impudent  and  contemptible 
litany  of  the  "  masher."  With  half  an  eye  Soapy 
saw  that  the  policeman  was  watching  him  fixedly. 
The  young  woman  moved  away  a  few  steps,  and 
again  bestowed  her  absorbed  attention  upon  the  shav 
ing  mugs.  Soapy  followed,  boldly  stepping  to  her 
side,  raised  his  hat  and  said: 

"  Ah  there,  Bedelia !  Don't  you  want  to  come  and 
play  in  my  yard?  " 

The  policeman  was  still  looking.  The  persecuted 
young  woman  had  but  to  beckon  a  finger  and  Soapy 
would  be  practically  en  route  for  his  insular  haven. 
Already  he  imagined  he  could  feel  the  cozy  warmth  of 
the  station-house.  The  young  woman  faced  him  and, 
stretching  out  a  hand,  caught  Soapy's  coat  sleeve. 

"Sure,  Mike,"  she  said  joyfully,  "if  you'll  blow 
me  to  a  pail  of  suds.  I'd  have  spoke  to  you  sooner, 
but  the  cop  was  watching." 

With  the  young  woman  playing  the  clinging  ivy 
to  his  oak  Soapy  walked  past  the  policeman  overcome 
with  gloom.  He  seemed  doomed  to  liberty. 

At  the  next  corner  he  shook  off  his  companion  and 
ran.  He  halted  in  the  district  where  by  night  are 
found  the  lightest  streets,  hearts,  vows  and  librettos. 


The  Cop  and  the  'Anthem  97 

Women  in  furs  and  men  in  greatcoats  moved  gaily  in 
the  wintry  air.  A  sudden  fear  seized  Soapy  that 
some  dreadful  enchantment  had  rendered  him  immune 
to  arrest.  The  thought  brought  a  little  of  panic  v 
upon  it,  and  when  he  came  upon  another  policeman 
lounging  grandly  in  front  of  a  transplendent  the 
atre  he  caught  at  the  immediate  straw  of  "  disorderly 
conduct." 

On  the  sidewalk  Soapy  began  to  yell  drunken  gib 
berish  at  the  top  of  his  harsh  voice.  He  danced, 
howled,  raved  and  otherwise  disturbed  the  welkin. 

The  policeman  twirled  his  club,  turned  his  back  to 
Soapy  and  remarked  to  a  citizen. 

"  'Tis  one  of  them  Yale  lads  celebratin'  the  goose 
egg  they  give  to  the  Hartford  College.  Noisy;  but 
no  harm.  We've  instructions  to  lave  them  be." 

Disconsolate,  Soapy  ceased  his  unavailing  racket. 
Would  never  a  policeman  lay  hands  on  him?  In  his 
fancy  the  Island  seemed  an  unattainable  Arcadia. 
He  buttoned  his  thin  coat  against  the  chilling  wind. 

In  a  cigar  store  he  saw  a  well-dressed  man  light 
ing  a  cigar  at  a  swinging  light.  His  silk  umbrella 
he  had  set  by  the  door  on  entering.  Soapy  stepped 
inside,  secured  the  umbrella  and  sauntered  off  with 
it  slowly.  The  man  at  the  cigar  light  followed 
hastily. 


98  The  Four  Million 

"  My  umbrella,"  he  said,  sternly. 

"  Oh,  is  it?  "  sneered  Soapy,  adding  insult  to  petit 
larceny.  "  Well,  why  don't  you  call  a  policeman  ?  I 
took  it.  Your  umbrella !  Why  don't  you  call  a  cop  ? 
There  stands  one  on  the  corner." 

The  umbrella  owner  slowed  his  steps.  Soapy  did 
likewise,  with  a  presentiment  that  luck  would  again 
run  against  him.  The  policeman  looked  at  the  two 
curiously. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  umbrella  man  — "  that  is  — 
well,  you  know  how  these  mistakes  occur  —  I  —  if  it's 
your  umbrella  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  —  I  picked  it 
up  this  morning  in  a  restaurant  —  If  you  recognise 
it  as  yours,  why  —  I  hope  you'll  — " 

"  Of  course  it's  mine,"  said  Soapy,  viciously. 

The  ex-umbrella  man  retreated.  The  policeman 
hurried  to  assist  a  tall  blonde  in  an  opera  cloak  across 
the  street  in  front  of  a  street  car  that  was  approach 
ing  two  blocks  away. 

Soapy  walked  eastward  through  a  street  damaged 
by  improvements.  He  hurled  the  umbrella  wrath- 
fully  into  an  excavation.  He  muttered  against  the 
men  who  wear  helmets  and  carry  clubs.  Because  he 
wanted  to  fall  into  their  clutches,  they  seemed  to 
regard  him  as  a  king  who  could  do  no  wrong. 

At  length  Soapy  reached  one  of  the  avenues  to  the 


The  Cop  and  the  Anthem  99 

east  where  the  glitter  and  turmoil  was  but  faint. 
He  set  his  face  down  this  toward  Madison  Square, 
for  the  homing  instinct  survives  even  when  the  home 
is  a  park  bench. 

But  on  an  unusually  quiet  corner  Soapy  came  to  a 
standstill.  Here  was  an  old  church,  quaint  and  ram 
bling  and  gabled.  Through  one  violet-stained  win 
dow  a  soft  light  glowed,  where,  no  doubt,  the  organ 
ist  loitered  over  the  keys,  making  sure  of  his  mastery 
of  the  coming  Sabbath  anthem.  For  there  drifted 
out  to  Soapy's  ears  sweet  music  that  caught  and  held 
him  transfixed  against  the  convolutions  of  the  iron 
fence. 

The  moon  was  above,  lustrous  and  serene ;  vehicles 
and  pedestrians  were  few ;  sparrows  twittered  sleepily 
in  the  eaves  —  for  a  liitle  while  the  scene  might  have 
been  a  country  churchyard.  And  the  anthem  that 
the  organist  played  cemented  Soapy  to  the  iron  fence, 
for  he  had  known  it  well  in  the  days  when  his  life 
contained  such  things  as  mothers  and  roses  and  am 
bitions  and  friends  and  immaculate  thoughts  and  col 
lars. 

The  conjunction  of  Soapy's  receptive  state  of  mind 
and  the  influences  about  the  old  church  wrought  a 
sudden  and  wonderful  change  in  his  soul.  He  viewed 
with  swift  horror  the  pit  into  which  he  had  tumbled, 


100  The  Four  Million 

the  degraded  days,  unworthy  desires,  dead  hopes* 
wrecked  faculties  and  base  motives  that  made  up  his 
existence. 

And  also  in  a  moment  his  heart  responded  thrill- 
ingly  to  this  novel  mood.  An  instantaneous  and 
strong  impulse  moved  him  to  battle  with  his  desper 
ate  fate.  He  would  pull  himself  out  of  the  mire ;  he 
would  make  a  man  of  himself  again;  he  would  con 
quer  the  evil  that  had  taken  possession  of  him. 
There  was  time;  he  was  comparatively  young  yet; 
he  would  resurrect  his  old  eager  ambitions  and  pur 
sue  them  without  faltering.  Those  solemn  but  sweet 
organ  notes  had  set  up  a  revolution  in  him.  To 
morrow  he  would  go  into  the  roaring  downtown  dis 
trict  and  find  work.  A  fur  importer  had  once  offered 
him  a  place  as  driver.  He  would  find  him  to-morrow 
and  ask  for  the  position.  He  would  be  somebody  in 
the  world.  He  would  — 

Soapy  felt  a  hand  laid  on  his  arm.  He  looked 
quickly  around  into  the  broad  face  of  a  policeman. 

"  What  are  you  doin'  here  ?  "  asked  the  officer. 

"  Nothin',"  said  Soapy. 

"  Then  come  along,"  said  the  policeman. 

"  Three  months  on  the  Island,"  said  the  Magistrate 
in  the  Police  Court  the  next  morning. 


AN  ADJUSTMENT  OF  NATURE 

IN  an  art  exhibition  the  other  day  I  saw  a  paint 
ing  that  had  been  sold  for  $5,000.  The  painter 
was  a  young  scrub  out  of  the  West  named  Kraft,  who 
had  a  favourite  food  and  a  pet  theory.  His  pabulum 
was  an  unquenchable  belief  in  the  Unerring  Artistic 
Adjustment  of  Nature.  His  theory  was  fixed  around 
corned-beef  hash  with  poached  egg.  There  was  a 
story  behind  the  picture,  so  I  went  home  and  let  it 
drip  out  of  a  fountain-pen.  The  idea  of  Kraft  — 
but  that  is  not  the  beginning  of  the  story. 

Three  years  ago  Kraft,  Bill  Judkins  (a  poet),  and 
I  took  our  meals  at  Cypher's,  on  Eighth  Avenue.  I 
say  "  took."  When  we  had  money,  Cypher  got  it 
"  off  of  "  us,  as  he  expressed  it.  We  had  no  credit ; 
we  went  in,  called  for  food  and  ate  it.  We  paid  or 
we  did  not  pay.  We  had  confidence  in  Cypher's 
sullenness  and  smouldering  ferocity.  Deep  down  in 
his  sunless  soul  he  was  either  a  prince,  a  fool  or  an 
artist.  He  sat  at  a  worm-eaten  desk,  covered  with 

files  of  waiters'  checks  so  old  that  I  was  sure  the 

101 


102  The  Four  Million 

bottomest  one  was  for  clams  that  Hendrik  Hudson 
had  eaten  and  paid  for.  Cypher  had  the  power,  in 
common  with  Napoleon  III.  and  the  goggle-eyed 
perch,  of  throwing  a  film  over  his  eyes,  rendering 
opaque  the  windows  of  his  soul.  Once  when  we  left 
him  unpaid,  with  egregious  excuses,  I  looked  back 
and  saw  him  shaking  with  inaudible  laughter  behind 
his  film.  Now  and  then  we  paid  up  back  scores. 

But  the  chief  thing  at  Cypher's  was  Milly.  Milly 
was  a  waitress.  She  was  a  grand  example  of  Kraft's 
theory  of  the  artistic  adjustment  of  nature.  She 
belonged,  largely,  to  waiting,  as  Minerva  did  to  the 
art  of  scrapping,  or  Venus  to  the  science  of  serious 
flirtation.  Pedestalled  and  in  bronze  she  might  have 
stood  with  the  noblest  of  her  heroic  sisters  as  "  Liver- 
and-Bacon  Enlivening  the  World."  She  belonged  to 
Cypher's.  You  expected  to  see  her  colossal  figure 
loom  through  that  reeking  blue  cloud  of  smoke  from 
frying  fat  just  as  you  expect  the  Palisades  to  appear 
through  a  drifting  Hudson  River  fog.  There  amid 
the  steam  of  vegetables  and  the  vapours  of  acres  of 
"  ham  and,"  the  crash  of  crockery,  the  clatter  of  steel, 
the  screaming  of  "  short  orders,"  the  cries  of  the 
hungering  and  all  the  horrid  tumult  of  feeding  man, 
surrounded  by  swarms  of  the  buzzing  winged  beasts 
bequeathed  us  by  Pharaoh,  Milly  steered  her  magnifi- 


An  Adjustment  of  Nature         103 

cent  way  like  some  great  liner  cleaving  among  the 
canoes  of  howling  savages. 

Our  Goddess  of  Grub  was  built  on  lines  so  majes 
tic  that  they  could  be  followed  only  with  awe.  Her 
sleeves  were  always  rolled  above  her  elbows.  She 
could  have  taken  us  three  musketeers  in  her  two 
hands  and  dropped  us  out  of  the  window.  She  had 
seen  fewer  years  than  any  of  us,  but  she  was  of  such 
superb  Evehood  and  simplicity  that  she  mothered  us 
from  the  beginning.  Cypher's  store  of  eatables  she 
poured  out  upon  us  with  royal  indifference  to  price 
and  quantity,  as  from  a  cornucopia  that  knew  no  ex 
haustion.  Her  voice  rang  like  a  great  silver  bell; 
her  smile  was  many-toothed  and  frequent;  she  seemed 
like  a  yellow  sunrise  on  mountain  tops.  I  never  saw 
her  but  I  thought  of  the  Yosemite.  And  yet,  some 
how,  I  could  never  think  of  her  as  existing  outside  of 
Cypher's.  There  nature  had  placed  her,  and  she  had 
taken  root  and  grown  mightily.  She  seemed  happy, 
and  took  her  few  poor  dollars  on  Saturday  nights  with 
the  flushed  pleasure  of  a  child  that  receives  an  unex 
pected  donation. 

It  was  Kraft  who  first  voiced  the  fear  that  each 
of  us  must  have  held  latently.  It  came  up  apropos, 
of  course,  of  certain  questions  of  art  at  which  we 
were  hammering.  One  of  us  compared  the  harmony 


104  The  Four  Million 

existing  between  a  Haydn  symphony  and  pistache 
ice  cream  to  the  exquisite  congruity  between  Milly 
and  Cypher's. 

"  There  is  a  certain  fate  hanging  over  Milly,"  said 
Kraft,  "  and  if  it  overtakes  her  she  is  lost  to  Cypher's 
and  to  us." 

"  She  will  grow  fat  ?  "  asked  Judkins,  f earsomely. 

*'  She  will  go  to  night  school  and  become  refined?  '* 
I  ventured  anxiously. 

61  It  is  this,"  said  Kraft,  punctuating  in  a  puddle 
of  spilled  coffee  with  a  stiff  forefinger.  "  Caesar  had 
his  Brutus  —  the  cotton  has  its  bollworm,  the  chorus 
girl  has  her  Pittsburger,  the  summer  boarder  has  his 
poison  ivy,  the  hero  has  his  Carnegie  medal,  art  has 
its  Morgan,  the  rose  has  its  — " 

"  Speak,"  I  interrupted,  much  perturbed.  "  You 
do  not  think  that  Milly  will  begin  to  lace?  " 

"  One  day,"  concluded  Kraft,  solemnly,  "  there  will 
come  to  Cypher's  for  a  plate  of  beans  a  millionaire 
lumberman  from  Wisconsin,  and  he  will  marry  Milly." 

"  Never !  "  exclaimed  Judkins  and  I,  in  horror. 

'*  A  lumberman,"  repeated  Kraft,  hoarsely. 

"  And  a  millionaire  lumberman !  "  I  sighed,  despair 
ingly- 

"  From  Wisconsin !  "  groaned  Judkins. 


An  Adjustment  of  Nature         105 

We  agreed  that  the  awful  fate  seemed  to  menace 
her.  Few  things  were  less  improbable.  Milly,  like 
some  vast  virgin  stretch  of  pine  woods,  was  made 
to  catch  the  lumberman's  eye.  And  well  we  knew 
the  habits  of  the  Badgers,  once  fortune  smiled  upon 
them.  Straight  to  New  York  they  hie,  and  lay  their 
goods  at  the  feet  of  the  girl  who  serves  them  beans 
in  a  beanery.  Why,  the  alphabet  itself  connives. 
The  Sunday  newspaper's  headliner's  work  is  cut  for 
him. 

"  Winsome  Waitress  Wins  Wealthy  Wisconsin 
Woodsman." 

For  a  while  we  felt  that  Milly  was  on  the  verge  of 
being  lost  to  us. 

It  was  our  love  of  the  Unerring  Artistic  Adjust 
ment  of  Nature  that  inspired  us.  We  could  not  give 
her  over  to  a  lumberman,  doubly  accursed  by  wealth 
and  provincialism.  We  shuddered  to  think  of  Milly, 
with  her  voice  modulated  and  her  elbows  covered, 
pouring  tea  in  the  marble  teepee  of  a  tree  murderer. 
No !  In  Cypher's  she  belonged  —  in  the  bacon  smoke, 
the  cabbage  perfume,  the  grand,  Wagnerian  chorus 
of  hurled  ironstone  china  and  rattling  casters. 

Our  fears  must  have  been  prophetic,  for  on  that 
same  evening  the  wildwood  discharged  upon  us  Milly's 


106  The  Four  Million 

preordained  confiscator  —  our  fee  to  adjustment  and 
order.  But  Alaska  and  not  Wisconsin  bore  the  bur 
den  of  the  visitation. 

We  were  at  our  supper  of  beef  stew  and  dried 
apples  when  he  trotted  in  as  if  on  the  heels  of  a  dog 
team,  and  made  one  of  the  mess  at  our  table.  With 
the  freedom  of  the  camps  he  assaulted  our  ears  and 
claimed  the  fellowship  of  men  lost  in  the  wilds  of  a 
hash  house.  We  embraced  him  as  a  specimen,  and  in 
three  minutes  we  had  all  but  died  for  one  another  as 
friends. 

He  was  rugged  and  bearded  and  wind-dried.  He 
had  just  come  off  the  "  trail,"  he  said,  at  one  of  the 
North  River  ferries.  I  fancied  I  could  see  the  snow 
dust  of  Chilcoot  yet  powdering  his  shoulders.  And 
then  he  strewed  the  table  with  the  nuggets,  stuffed 
ptarmigans,  bead  work  and  seal  pelts  of  the  returned 
Klondiker,  and  began  to  prate  to  us  of  his  millions. 

"  Bank  drafts  for  two  millions,"  was  his  summing 
up,  "  and  a  thousand  a  day  piling  up  from  my  claims. 
And  now  I  want  some  beef  stew  and  canned  peaches. 
I  never  got  off  the  train  since  I  mushed  out  of  Seattle, 
and  I'm  hungry.  The  stuff  the  niggers  feed  you  on 
Pullmans  don't  count.  You  gentlemen  order  what 
you  want." 

And  then  Milly  loomed  up  with  a  thousand  dishes 


An  Adjustment  of  Nature         107 

on  her  bare  arm  —  loomed  up  big  and  white  and  pink 
and  awful  as  Mount  Saint  Elias  —  with  a  smile  like 
day  breaking  in  a  gulch.  And  the  Klondiker  threw 
down  his  pelts  and  nuggets  as  dross,  and  let  his  jaw 
fall  half-way,  and  stared  at  her.  You  could  almost 
see  the  diamond  tiaras  on  Milly's  brow  and  the  hand- 
embroidered  silk  Paris  gowns  that  he  meant  to  buy 
for  her. 

At  last  the  bollworm  had  attacked  the  cotton  — 
the  poison  ivy  was  reaching  out  its  tendrils  to  entwine 
the  summer  boarder  —  the  millionaire  lumberman, 
thinly  disguised  as  the  Alaskan  miner,  was  about  to 
engulf  our  Milly  and  upset  Nature's  adjustment. 

Kraft  was  the  first  to  act.  He  leaped  up  and 
pounded  the  Klondiker's  back.  "  Come  out  and 
drink,"  he  shouted.  "  Drink  first  and  eat  afterward." 
Judkins  seized  one  arm  and  I  the  other.  Gaily,  roar- 
ingly,  irresistibly,  in  jolly-good-fellow  style,  we 
dragged  him  from  the  restaurant  to  a  cafe,  stuffing 
his  pockets  with  his  embalmed  birds  and  indigestible 
nuggets. 

There  he  rumbled  a  roughly  good-humoured  pro 
test.  "  That's  the  girl  for  my  money,"  he  declared. 
"  She  can  eat  out  of  my  skillet  the  rest  of  her  life. 
Why,  I  never  see  such  a  fine  girl.  I'm  going  back 
there  and  ask  her  to  marry  me.  I  guess  she  won't 


108  The  Four  Million 

want  to  sling  hash  any  more  when  she  sees  the  pile  of 
dust  I've  got." 

"  You'll  take  another  whiskey  and  milk  now," 
Kraft  persuaded,  with  Satan's  smile.  "  I  thought 
you  up-country  fellows  were  better  sports." 

Kraft  spent  his  puny  store  of  coin  at  the  bar  and 
then  gave  Judkins  and  me  such  an  appealing  look 
that  we  went  down  to  the  last  dime  we  had  in  toast 
ing  our  guest. 

Then,  when  our  ammunition  was  gone  and  the 
Klondiker,  still  somewhat  sober,  began  to  babble  again 
of  Milly,  Kraft  whispered  into  his  ear  such  a  polite, 
barbed  insult  relating  to  people  who  were  miserly  with 
their  funds,  that  the  miner  crashed  down  handful  after 
handful  of  silver  and  notes,  calling  for  all  the  fluids 
in  the  world  to  drown  the  imputation. 

Thus  the  work  was  accomplished.  With  his  own 
guns  we  drove  him  from  the  field.  And  then  we  had 
him  carted  to  a  distant  small  hotel  and  put  to  bed 
with  his  nuggets  and  baby  seal-skins  stuffed  around 
him. 

"  He  will  never  find  Cypher's  again,"  said  Kraft. 
"  He  will  propose  to  the  first  white  apron  he  sees  in, 
a  dairy  restaurant  to-morrow.  And  Milly  —  I  mean 
the  Natural  Adjustment  —  is  saved!" 

And  back  to  Cypher's  went  we  three,  and,  finding 


An  Adjustment  of  Nature         109 

customers  scarce,  we  joined  hands  and  did  an  Indian 
dance  with  Milly  in  the  centre. 

This,  I  say,  happened  three  years  ago.  And  about 
that  time  a  little  luck  descended  upon  us  three,  and 
we  were  enabled  to  buy  costlier  and  less  wholesome 
food  than  Cypher's.  Our  paths  separated,  and  I  saw 
Kraft  no  more  and  Judkins  seldom. 

But,  as  I  said,  I  saw  a  painting  the  other  day 
that  was  sold  for  $5,000.  The  title  w»s  "  Boadicea," 
and  the  figure  seemed  to  fill  all  out-of-doors.  But 
of  all  the  picture's  admirers  who  stood  before  it,  I 
believe  I  was  the  only  one  who  longed  for  Boadicea 
to  stalk  from  her  frame,  bringing  me  corned-beef  hash 
with  poached  egg. 

I  hurried  away  to  see  Kraft.  His  satanic  eyes 
were  the  same,  his  hair  was  worse  tangled,  but  his 
clothes  had  been  made  by  a  tailor. 

"  I  didn't  know,"  I  said  to  him. 

« "We've  bought  a  cottage  in  the  Bronx  with  the 
money,"  said  he.  "  Any  evening  at  7." 

"  Then,"  said  I,  "  when  you  led  us  against 
the  lumberman  —  the  —  Klondiker  —  it  wasn't  alto 
gether  on  account  of  the  Unerring  Artistic  Adjust 
ment  of  Nature  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  altogether,"  said  Kraft,  with  a  grin. 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  YELLOW  DOG 

I  DON'T  suppose  it  will  knock  any  of  you  peo 
ple  off  your  perch  to  read  a  contribution  from  an 
animal.  Mr.  Kipling  and  a  good  many  others  have 
demonstrated  the  fact  that  animals  can  express  them 
selves  in  remunerative  English,  and  no  magazine  goes 
to  press  nowadays  without  an  animal  story  in  it,  ex 
cept  the  old-style  monthlies  that  are  still  running  pic 
tures  of  Bryan  and  the  Mont  Pelee  horror. 

But  you  needn't  look  for  any  stuck-up  literature 
in  my  piece,  such  as  Bearoo,  the  bear,  and  Snakoo, 
the  snake,  and  Tammanoo,  the  tiger,  talk  in  the 
jungle  books.  A  yellow  dog  that's  spent  most  of 
his  life  in  a  cheap  New  York  flat,  sleeping  in  a  corner 
on  an  old  sateen  underskirt  (the  one  she  spilled  port 
wine  on  at  the  Lady  'Longshoremen's  banquet), 
mustn't  be  expected  to  perform  any  tricks  with  the 
art  of  speech. 

I  was  born  a  yellow  pup;  date,  locality,  pedigree 
and  weight  unknown.  The  first  thing  I  can  recol 
lect,  an  old  woman  had  me  in  a  basket  at  Broadway 

and  Twenty-third  trying  to  sell  me  to  a  fat  lady. 

110 


Memoirs  of  a  Yellow  Dog          111 

Old  Mother  Hubbard  was  boosting  me  to  beat  the 
band  as  a  genuine  Pomeranian-Hambletonian-Red- 
Irish-Cochin-China-Stoke-Pogis  fox  terrier.  The  fat 
lady  chased  a  V  around  among  the  samples  of  gros 
grain  flannelette  in  her  shopping  bag  till  she  cornered 
it,  and  gave  up.  From  that  moment  I  was  a  pet  — > 
a  mamma's  own  wootsey  squidlums.  Say,  gentle 
reader,  did  you  ever  have  a  200-pound  woman 
breathing  a  flavour  of  Camembert  cheese  and  Peau 
d'Espagne  pick  you  up  and  wallop  her  nose  all  over 
you,  remarking  all  the  time  in  an  Emma  Eames  tone 
of  voice :  "  Oh,  oo's  um  oodlum,  doodlum,  woodlum, 
toodlum,  bitsy-witsy  skoodlums?  " 

From  a  pedigreed  yellow  pup  I  grew  up  to  be  an 
anonymous  yellow  cur  looking  like  a  cross  between 
an  Angora  cat  and  a  box  of  lemons.  But  my  mis 
tress  never  tumbled.  She  thought  that  the  two 
primeval  pups  that  Noah  chased  into  the  ark  were 
but  a  collateral  branch  of  my  ancestors.  It  took  two 
policemen  to  keep  her  from  entering  me  at  the 
Madison  Square  Garden  for  the  Siberian  bloodhound 
prize. 

I'll  tell  you  about  that  flat.  The  house  was  the 
ordinary  thing  in  New  York,  paved  with  Parian  mar 
ble  in  the  entrance  hall  and  cobblestones  above  the 
first  floor.  Our  flat  was  three  fl  — •  well,  not  flights  — 


112  The  Four  Million 

climbs  up.  My  mistress  rented  it  unfurnished,  and 
put  in  the  regular  things  — 1903  antique  unholstered 
parlour  set,  oil  chromo  of  geishas  in  a  Harlem  tea 
house,  rubber  plant  and  husband. 

By  Sirius !  there  was  a  biped  I  felt  sorry  for.  He 
was  a  little  man  with  sandy  hair  and  whiskers  a 
good  deal  like  mine.  Henpecked?  —  well,  toucans 
and  flamingoes  and  pelicans  all  had  their  bills  in 
him.  He  wiped  the  dishes  and  listened  to  my  mis 
tress  tell  about  the  cheap,  ragged  things  the  lady 
with  the  squirrel-skin  coat  on  the  second  floor  hung 
out  on  her  line  to  dry.  And  every  evening  while  she 
was  getting  supper  she  made  him  take  me  out  on  the 
end  of  a  string  for  a  walk. 

If  men  knew  how  women  pass  the  time  when  they 
are  alone  they'd  never  marry.  Laura  Lean  Jibbey, 
peanut  brittle,  a  little  almond  cream  on  the  neck 
muscles,  dishes  unwashed,  half  an  hour's  talk  with 
the  iceman,  reading  a  package  of  old  letters,  a  couple 
of  pickles  and  two  bottles  of  malt  extract,  one  hour 
peeking  through  a  hole  in  the  window  shade  into  the 
flat  across  the  air-shaft  —  that's  about  all  there  is  to 
it.  Twenty  minutes  before  time  for  him  to  come 
home  from  work  she  straightens  up  the  house,  fixes 
her  rat  so  it  won't  show,  and  gets  out  a  lot  of  sewing 
for  a  ten-minute  bluff. 


Memoirs  of  a  Yellow  Dog          113 

I  led  a  dog's  life  in  that  flat.  'Most  all  day  I  lay 
there  in  my  corner  watching  that  fat  woman  kill 
time.  I  slept  sometimes  and  had  pipe  dreams  about 
being  out  chasing  cats  into  basements  and  growling 
at  old  ladies  with  black  mittens,  as  a  dog  was  intended 
to  do.  Then  she  would  pounce  upon  me  with  a  lot  of 
that  drivelling  poodle  palaver  and  kiss  me  on  the 
nose  —  but  what  could  I  do?  A  dog  can't  chew 
cloves. 

I  began  to  feel  sorry  for  Hubby,  dog  my  cats  if 
I  didn't.  We  looked  so  much  alike  that  people  no 
ticed  it  when  we  went  out;  so  we  shook  the  streets 
that  Morgan's  cab  drives  down,  and  took  to  climbing 
the  piles  of  last  December's  snow  on  the  streets  where 
cheap  people  live. 

One  evening  when  we  were  thus  promenading,  and 
I  was  trying  to  look  like  a  prize  St.  Bernard,  and 
the  old  man  was  trying  to  look  like  he  wouldn't 
have  murdered  the  first  organ-grinder  he  heard  play 
Mendelssohn's  wedding-march,  I  looked  up  at  him 
and  said,  in  my  way: 

"  What  are  you  looking  so  sour  about,  you  oakum 
trimmed  lobster?  She  don't  kiss  you.  You  don't 
have  to  sit  on  her  lap  and  listen  to  talk  that  would 
make  the  book  of  a  musical  comedy  sound  like  the 
maxims  of  Epictetus.  You  ought  to  be  thankful 


114  The  Four  Million 

you're  not  a  dog.  Brace  up,  Benedick,  and  bid  the 
blues  begone." 

The  matrimonial  mishap  looked  down  at  me  with 
almost  canine  intelligence  in  his  face. 

"  Why,  doggie,"  says  he,  "  good  doggie.  You  al 
most  look  like  you  could  speak.  What  is  it,  doggie 
—  Cats?" 

Cats!     Could  speak! 

But,  of  course,  he  couldn't  understand.  Humans 
were  denied  the  speech  of  animals.  The  only  com 
mon  ground  of  communication  upon  which  dogs  and 
men  can  get  together  is  in  fiction. 

In  the  flat  across  the  hall  from  us  lived  a  lady  with 
a  black-and-tan  terrier.  Her  husband  strung  it 
and  took  it  out  every  evening,  but  he  always  came 
home  cheerful  and  whistling.  One  day  I  touched 
noses  with  the  black-and-tan  in  the  hall,  and  I  struck 
him  for  an  elucidation. 

"  See,  here,  Wiggle-and-Skip,"  I  says,  "  you  know 
that  it  ain't  the  nature  of  a  real  man  to  play  dry 
nurse  to  a  dog  in  public.  I  never  saw  one  leashed  to 
a  bow-wow  yet  that  didn't  look  like  he'd  like  to  lick 
every  other  man  that  looked  at  him.  But  your  boss 
comes  in  every  day  as  perky  and  set  up  as  an  ama 
teur  prestidigitator  doing  the  egg  trick.  How  does 
he  do  it?  Don't  tell  me  he  likes  it." 


Memoirs  of  a  Yellow  Dog          115 

"  Him?  "  says  the  black-and-tan.  "  Why,  he  uses 
Nature's  Own  Remedy.  He  gets  spifflicated.  At 
first  when  we  go  out  he's  as  shy  as  the  man  on  the 
steamer  who  would  rather  play  pedro  when  they 
make  'em  all  jackpots.  By  the  time  we've  been  in 
eight  saloons  he  don't  care  whether  the  thing  on  the 
end  of  his  line  is  a  dog  or  a  catfish.  I've  lost  two 
inches  of  my  tail  trying  to  sidestep  those  swinging 
doors." 

The  pointer  I  got  from  that  terrier  —  vaudeville 
please  copy  —  set  me  to  thinking. 

One  evening  about  6  o'clock  my  mistress  ordered 
him  to  get  busy  and  do  the  ozone  act  for  Lovey.  I 
have  concealed  it  until  now,  but  that  is  what  she 
called  me.  The  black-and-tan  was  called  "  Tweet- 
ness."  I  consider  that  I  have  the  bulge  on  him  as 
far  as  you  could  chase  a  rabbit.  Still  "  Lovey  "  is 
something  of  a  nomenclatural  tin  can  on  the  tail  of 
one's  self  respect. 

At  a  quiet  place  on  a  safe  street  I  tightened  the 
line  of  my  custodian  in  front  of  an  attractive,  re 
fined  saloon.  I  made  a  dead-ahead  scramble  for  the 
doors,  whining  like  a  dog  in  the  press  despatches 
that  lets  the  family  know  that  little  Alice  is  bogged 
while  gathering  lilies  in  the  brook. 

"  Why,  darn  my  eyes,"  says  the  old  man,  with  a 


116  The  Four  Million 

grin ;  "  darn  my  eyes  if  the  saffron-coloured  son  of  a 
seltzer  lemonade  ain't  asking  me  in  to  take  a  drink. 
Lemme  see  —  how  long's  it  been  since  I  saved  shoe 
leather  by  keeping  one  foot  on  the  foot-rest?  I 
believe  I'll  — " 

I  knew  I  had  him.  Hot  Scotches  he  took,  sitting 
at  a  table.  For  an  hour  he  kept  the  Campbells  com 
ing.  I  sat  by  his  side  rapping  for  the  waiter  with 
my  tail,  and  eating  free  lunch  such  as  mamma  in  her 
flat  never  equalled  with  her  homemade  truck  bought 
at  a  delicatessen  store  eight  minutes  before  papa 
comes  home. 

When  the  products  of  Scotland  were  all  exhausted 
except  the  rye  bread  the  old  man  unwound  me  from 
the  table  leg  and  played  me  outside  like  a  fisherman 
plays  a  salmon.  Out  there  he  took  off  my  collar  and 
threw  it  into  the  street. 

"  Poor  doggie,"  says  he ;  "  good  doggie.  She 
shan't  kiss  you  any  more.  'S  a  darned  shame. 
Good  doggie,  go  away  and  get  run  over  by  a  street 
car  and  be  happy." 

I  refused  to  leave.  I  leaped  and  frisked  around 
the  old  man's  legs  happy  as  a  pug  on  a  rug. 

"  You  old  flea-headed  woodchuck-chaser,"  I  said 
to  him — "you  moon-baying,  rabbit-pointing,  egg- 


Memoirs  of  a  Yellow  Dog          117 

stealing  old  beagle,  aan't  you  see  that  I  don't  want 
to  leave  you?  Can't  you  see  that  we're  both  Pups 
in  the  Wood  and  the  missis  is  the  cruel  uncle  after 
you  with  the  dish  towel  and  me  with  the  flea  liniment 
and  a  pink  bow  to  tie  on  my  tail.  Why  not  cut  that 
all  out  and  be  pards  forever  more  ?  " 

Maybe  you'll  say  he  didn't  understand  —  maybe 
he  didn't.  But  he  kind  of  got  a  grip  on  the  Hot 
Scotches,  and  stood  still  for  a  minute,  thinking. 

"  Doggie,"  says  he,  finally,  "  we  don't  live  more 
than  a  dozen  lives  on  this  earth,  and  very  few  of  us 
live  to  be  more  than  300.  If  I  ever  see  that  flat  any 
more  I'm  a  flat,  and  if  you  do  you're  flatter;  and 
that's  no  flattery.  I'm  offering  60  to  1  that  West 
ward  Ho  wins  out  by  the  length  of  a  dachshund." 

There  was  no  string,  but  I  frolicked  along  with 
my  master  to  the  Twenty-third  street  ferry.  And 
the  cats  on  the  route  saw  reason  to  give  thanks  that 
prehensile  claws  had  been  given  them. 

On  the  Jersey  side  my  master  said  to  a  stranger 
who  stood  eating  a  currant  bun: 

"  Me  and  my  doggie,  we  are  bound  for  the  Rocky 
Mountains." 

But  what  pleased  me  most  was  when  my  old  man 
pulled  both  of  my  ears  until  I  howled,  and  said: 


118  The  Four  Million 

"  You  common,  monkey-headed,  rat-tailed,  sul 
phur-coloured  son  of  a  door  mat,  do  you  know  what 
I'm  going  to  call  you?  " 

I  thought  of  "  Lovey,"  and  I  whined  dolefully. 

"  I'm  going  to  call  you  '  Pete,'  "  says  my  master ; 
and  if  I'd  had  five  tails  I  couldn't  have  done  enough 
wagging  to  do  justice  to  the  occasion. 


THE  tOVE-PHILTRE  OF  IKEY 
SCHOENSTEIN 

IHE  Blue  Light  Drug  Store  is  downtown,  between 
the  Bowery  and  First  Avenue,  where  the  distance 
between  the  two  streets  is  the  shortest.  The  Blue- 
Light  does  not  consider  that  pharmacy  is  a  thing  of 
bric-a-brac,  scent  and  ice-cream  soda.  If  you  ask 
it  for  pain-killer  it  will  not  give  you  a  bonbon. 

The  Blue  Light  scorns  the  labour-saving  arts  of 
modern  pharmacy.  It  macerates  its  opium  and  per 
colates  its  own  laudanum  and  paregoric.  To  this 
day  pills  are  made  behind  its  tall  prescription  desk  — 
pills  rolled  out  on  its  own  pill-tile,  divided  with  a 
spatula,  rolled  with  the  finger  and  thumb,  dusted  with 
calcined  magnesia  and  delivered  in  little  round  paste 
board  pill-boxes.  The  store  is  on  a  corner  about 
which  coveys  of  ragged-plumed,  hilarious  children 
play  and  become  candidates  for  the  cough  drops  and 
soothing  syrups  that  wait  for  them  inside. 

Ikey  Schoenstein  was  the  night  clerk  of  the  Blue 
Light  and  the  friend  of  his  customers.  Thus  it  is  on 

the  East  Side,  where  the  heart  of  pharmacy  is  not 

119 


120  The  Four  Million 

glace.  There,  as  it  should  be,  the  druggist  is  a  coun 
sellor,  a  confessor,  an  adviser,  an  able  and  willing 
missionary  and  mentor  whose  learning  is  respected, 
whose  occult  wisdom  is  venerated  and  whose  medicine 
is  often  poured,  untasted,  into  the  gutter.  There 
fore  Ikey's  corniform,  be-spectacled  nose  and  nar 
row,  knowledge-bowed  figure  was  well  known  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  Blue  Light,  and  his  advice  and  notice 
were  much  desired. 

Ikey  roomed  and  breakfasted  at  Mrs.  Riddle's  two 
squares  away.  Mrs.  Riddle  had  a  daughter  named 
Rosy.  The  circumlocution  has  been  in  vain  —  you 
must  have  guessed  it  —  Ikey  adored  Rosy.  She 
tinctured  all  his  thoughts;  she  was  the  compound 
extract  of  all  that  was  chemically  pure  and  officinal 
—  the  dispensatory  contained  nothing  equal  to  her. 
But  Ikey  was  timid,  and  his  hopes  remained  insoluble 
in  the  menstruum  of  his  backwardness  and  fears. 
Behind  his  counter  he  was  a  superior  being,  calmly 
conscious  of  special  knowledge  and  worth ;  outside  he 
was  a  weak-kneed,  purblind,  motorman-cursed  ram 
bler,  with  ill-fitting  clothes  stained  with  chemicals 
and  smelling  of  socotrine  aloes  and  valerianate  of 
ammonia. 

The  fly  in  Ikey's  ointment  (thrice  welcome,  pat 
trope!)  was  Chunk  McGowan, 


Love-Philtre  of  Tkey  'Schoenstein    121 

Mr.  McGowan  was  also  striving  to  catch  the  bright 
smiles  tossed  about  by  Rosy.  But  he  was  no  out 
fielder  as  Ikey  was ;  he  picked  them  off  the  bat.  At 
the  same  time  he  was  Ikey's  friend  and  customer, 
and  often  dropped  in  at  the  Blue  Light  Drug  Store 
to  have  a  bruise  painted  with  iodine  or  get  a  cut 
rubber-plastered  after  a  pleasant  evening  spent  along 
the  Bowery. 

One  afternoon  McGowan  drifted  in  in  his  silent, 
easy  way,  and  sat,  comely,  smooth-faced,  hard,  in 
domitable,  good-natured,  upon  a  stool. 

"  Ikey,"  said  he,  when  his  friend  had  fetched  his 
mortar  and  sat  opposite,  grinding  gum  benzoin  to  a 
powder,  "  get  busy  with  your  ear.  It's  drugs  for  me 
if  you've  got  the  line  I  need." 

Ikey  scanned  the  countenance  of  Mr.  McGowan  for 
the  usual  evidences  of  conflict,  but  found  none. 

"  Take  your  coat  off,"  he  ordered.  "  I  guess  al 
ready  that  you  have  been  stuck  in  the  ribs  with  a 
knife.  I  have  many  times  told  you  those  Dagoes 
would  do  you  up." 

Mr.  McGowan  smiled.  "  Not  them,"  he  said. 
"  Not  any  Dagoes.  But  you've  located  the  diagnosis 
all  right  enough  —  it's  under  my  coat,  near  the  ribs. 
Say !  Ikey  —  Rosy  and  me  are  goin'  to  run  away  and 
get  married  to-night." 


122  The  Four  Million 

Ikey's  left  forefinger  was  doubled  over  the  edge  of 
the  mortar,  holding  it  steady.  He  gave  it  a  wild  rap 
with  the  pestle,  but  felt  it  not.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Mc- 
Gowan's  smile  faded  to  a  look  of  perplexed  gloom. 

"  That  is,"  he  continued,  "  if  she  keeps  in  the  no 
tion  until  the  time  comes.  We've  been  layin'  pipes 
for  the  getaway  for  two  weeks.  One  day  she  says  she 
will;  the  same  evenin'  she  says  nixy.  We've  agreed 
on  to-night,  and  Rosy's  stuck  to  the  affirmative  this 
time  for  two  whole  days.  But  it's  five  hours  yet  till 
the  time,  and  I'm  afraid  she'll  stand  me  up  when  it 
comes  to  the  scratch." 

"  You  said  you  wanted  drugs,"  remarked  Ikey. 

Mr.  McGowan  looked  ill  at  ease  and  harassed  —  a 
condition  opposed  to  his  usual  line  of  demeanour.  He 
made  a  patent-medicine  almanac  into  a  roll  and  fitted 
it  with  unprofitable  carefulness  about  his  finger. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  this  double  handicap  make  a 
false  start  to-night  for  a  million,"  he  said.  "  I've  got 
a  little  flat  up  in  Harlem  all  ready,  with  chrysan 
themums  on  the  table  and  a  kettle  ready  to  boil. 
And  I've  engaged  a  pulpit  pounder  to  be  ready  at 
his  house  for  us  at  9.30.  It's  got  to  come  off.  And 
if  Rosy  don't  change  her  mind  again !  " —  Mr.  Mc 
Gowan  ceased,  a  prey  to  his  doubts. 

"  I  don't  see  then  yet,"  said  Ikey,  shortly,  "  whafr 


Love-Philtre  of  Ikey  Schoenstein    123 

makes  it  that  you  talk  of  drugs,  or  what  I  can  be 
doing  about  it." 

"  Old  man  Riddle  don't  like  me  a  little  bit,"  went 
on  the  uneasy  suitor,  bent  upon  marshalling  his  argu 
ments.  "  For  a  week  he  hasn't  let  Rosy  step  outside 
the  door  with  me.  If  it  wasn't  for  losin'  a  boarder 
they'd  have  bounced  me  long  ago.  I'm  makin'  $20  a 
week  and  she'll  never  regret  flyin'  the  coop  with 
Chunk  McGowan." 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  Chunk,"  said  Ikey.  "  I 
must  make  a  prescription  that  is  to  be  called  for 
soon." 

"  Say,"  said  McGowan,  looking  up  suddenly, 
"  say,  Ikey,  ain't  there  a  drug  of  some  kind  —  some 
kind  of  powders  that'll  make  a  girl  like  you  better  if 
you  give  'em  to  her  ?  " 

Ikey's  lip  beneath  his  nose  curled  with  the  scorn 
of  superior  enlightenment;  but  before  he  could  an 
swer,  McGowan  continued: 

"  Tim  Lacy  told  me  he  got  some  once  from  a 
croaker  uptown  and  fed  'em  to  his  girl  in  soda  water. 
From  the  very  first  dose  he  was  ace-high  and  every 
body  else  looked  like  thirty  cents  to  her.  They  was 
married  in  less  than  two  weeks." 

Strong  and  simple  was  Chunk  McGowan.  A  better 
reader  of  men  than  Ikey  was  could  have  seen  that  his 


124  The  Four  Million 

tough  frame  was  strung  upon  fine  wires.  Like  a 
good  general  who  was  about  to  invade  the  enemy's 
territory  he  was  seeking  to  guard  every  point  against 
possible  failure. 

"  I  thought,"  went  on  Chunk  hopefully,  "  that  if  I 
had  one  of  them  powders  to  give  Rosy  when  I  see 
her  at  supper  to-night  it  might  brace  her  up  and 
keep  her  from  reneging  on  the  proposition  to  skip.  I 
guess  she  don't  need  a  mule  team  to  drag  her  away, 
but  women  are  better  at  coaching  than  they  are  at 
running  bases.  If  the  stuff'll  work  just  for  a  couple 
of  hours  it'll  do  the  trick." 

"  When  is  this  foolishness  of  running  away  to  be 
happening?  "  asked  Ikey. 

"  Nine  o'clock,"  said  Mr.  McGowan.  "  Supper's 
at  seven.  At  eight  Rosy  goes  to  bed  with  a  headache. 
At  nine  old  Parvenzano  lets  me  through  to  his  back 
yard,  where  there's  a  board  off  Riddle's  fence,  next 
door.  I  go  under  her  window  and  help  her  down  the 
fire-escape.  We've  got  to  make  it  early  on  the 
preacher's  account.  It's  all  dead  easy  if  Rosy  don't 
balk  when  the  flag  drops.  Can  you  fix  me  one  of  them 
powders,  Ikey  ?  " 

Ikey  Schoenstein  rubbed  his  nose  slowly. 

"  Chunk,"  said  he,  "  it  is  of  drugs  of  that  nature 
that  pharmaceutists  must  have  much  carefulness.  To 


Love-Philtre  of  Ikey  Schoenstein     125; 

you  alone  of  my  acquaintance  would  I  intrust  a 
powder  like  that.  But  for  you  I  shall  make  it,  and 
you  shall  see  how  it  makes  Rosy  to  think  of  you." 

Ikey  went  behind  the  prescription  desk.  There  he 
crushed  to  a  powder  two  soluble  tablets,  each  con 
taining  a  quarter  of  a  grain  of  morphia.  To  them 
he  added  a  little  sugar  of  milk  to  increase  the  bulk, 
and  folded  the  mixture  neatly  in  a  white  paper. 
Taken  by  an  adult  this  powder  would  insure  several 
hours  of  heavy  slumber  without  danger  to  the  sleeper. 
This  he  handed  to  Chunk  McGowan,  telling  him  to 
administer  it  in  a  liquid  if  possible,  and  received  the 
hearty  thanks  of  the  backyard  Lochinvar. 

The  subtlety  of  Ikey's  action  becomes  apparent 
upon  recital  of  his  subsequent  move.  He  sent  a 
messenger  for  Mr.  Riddle  and  disclosed  the  plans  of 
Mr.  McGowan  for  eloping  with  Rosy.  Mr.  Riddle 
was  a  stout  man,  brick-dusty  of  complexion  and  sud 
den  in  action. 

"  Much  obliged,"  he  said,  briefly,  to  Ikey.  "  The 
lazy  Irish  loafer!  My  own  room's  just  above  Rosy's. 
I'll  just  go  up  there  myself  after  supper  and  load  the 
shot-gun  and  wait.  If  he  comes  in  my  back  yard 
he'll  go  away  in  a  ambulance  instead  of  a  bridal 
chaise." 

With  Rosy  held  in  the  clutches  of  Morpheus  for  a 


126  The  Four  Million 

many-hours  deep  slumber,  and  the  bloodthirsty 
parent  waiting,  armed  and  forewarned,  Ikey  felt  that 
his  rival  was  close,  indeed,  upon  discomfiture. 

All  night  in  the  Blue  Light  Drug  Store  he  waited 
at  his  duties  for  chance  news  of  the  tragedy,  but 
none  came. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  day  clerk  ar 
rived  and  Ikey  started  hurriedly  for  Mrs.  Riddle's  to 
learn  the  outcome.  And,  lo !  as  he  stepped  out  of  the 
store  who  but  Chunk  McGowan  sprang  from  a  pass 
ing  street  car  and  grasped  his  hand  —  Chunk  Mc 
Gowan  with  a  victor's  smile  and  flushed  with  joy. 

"  Pulled  it  off,"  said  Chunk  with  Elysium  in  his 
grin.  "  Rosy  hit  the  fire-escape  on  time  to  a  second, 
and  we  was  under  che  wire  at  the  Reverend's  at 
9.301/4.  She's  up  at  the  flat  —  she  cooked  eggs  this 
mornin'  in  a  blue  kimono — Lord!  how  lucky  I  am! 
You  must  pace  up  some  day,  Ikey,  and  feed  with  us. 
I've  got  a  job  down  near  the  bridge,  and  that's  where 
I'm  heading  for  now." 

"  The  —  the  —  powder  ?  "  stammered  Ikey. 

"  Oh,  that  stuff  you  gave  me!  "  said  Chunk,  broad 
ening  his  grin ;  "  well,  it  was  this  way.  I  sat  down 
at  the  supper  table  last  night  at  Riddle's,  and  I 
looked  at  Rosy,  and  I  says  to  myself,  c  Chunk,  if  you 
get  the  girl  get  her  on  the  square  —  don't  try  any 


Love-Philtre  of  Ikey  Schoenstein    127 

hocus-pocus  with  a  thoroughbred  like  her.'  'And 
I  keeps  the  paper  you  give  me  in  my  pocket.  And 
then  my  lamps  fall  on  another  party  present,  who, 
I  says  to  myself,  is  failin'  in  a  proper  affection  to 
ward  his  comin'  son-in-law,  so  I  watches  my  chance 
and  dumps  that  powder  in  old  man  Riddle's  coffee  — • 
see?  " 


MAMMON  AND  THE  ARCHER 

Anthony  Rockwall,  retired  manufacturer  and 
proprietor  of  Rockwall's  Eureka  Soap,  looked  out 
the  library  window  of  his  Fifth  Avenue  mansion  and 
grinned.  His  neighbour  to  the  right  —  the  aristo 
cratic  clubman,  G.  Van  Schuylight  Suffolk-Jones  — 
came  out  to  his  waiting  motor-car,  wrinkling  a  con 
tumelious  nostril,  as  usual,  at  the  Italian  renaissance 
sculpture  of  the  soap  palace's  front  elevation. 

"  Stuck-up  old  statuette  of  nothing  doing ! "  com 
mented  the  ex-Soap  King.  "  The  Eden  Musee'll  get 
that  old  frozen  Nesselrode  yet  if  he  don't  watch  out. 
I'll  have  this  house  painted  red,  white,  and  blue 
next  summer  and  see  if  that'll  make  his  Dutch  nose 
turn  up  any  higher." 

And  then  Anthony  Rockwall,  who  never  cared  for 
bells,  went  to  the  door  of  his  library  and  shouted 
"  Mike ! "  in  the  same  voice  that  had  once  chipped 
off  pieces  of  the  welkin  on  the  Kansas  prairies. 

"  Tell  my  son,"  said  Anthony  to  the  answering 
menial,  "  to  come  in  here  before  he  leaves  the  house." 

When  young  Rockwall  entered  the  library  the  old 

128 


Mammon  and  the  Archer          129 

man  laid  aside  his  newspaper,  looked  at  him  with  a 
kindly  grimness  on  his  big,  smooth,  ruddy  counte 
nance,  rumpled  his  mop  of  white  hair  with  one  hand 
and  rattled  the  keys  in  his  pocket  with  the  other. 

"  Richard,"  said  Anthony  Rockwall,  "  what  do  you 
pay  for  the  soap  that  you  use?  " 

Richard,  only  six  months  home  from  college,  was 
startled  a  little.  He  had  not  yet  taken  the  measure 
of  this  sire  of  his,  who  was  as  full  of  unexpected 
nesses  as  a  girl  at  her  first  party. 

"  Six  dollars  a  dozen,  I  think,  dad." 

"  And  your  clothes  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  about  sixty  dollars,  as  a  rule." 

"  You're  a  gentleman,"  said  Anthony,  decidedly. 
"  I've  heard  of  these  young  bloods  spending  $24<  a 
dozen  for  soap,  and  going  over  the  hundred  mark  for 
clothes.  You've  got  as  much  money  to  waste  as  any 
of  'em,  and  yet  you  stick  to  what's  decent  and  mod 
erate.  Now  I  use  the  old  Eureka  —  not  only  for 
sentiment,  but  it's  the  purest  soap  made.  Whenever 
you  pay  more  than  10  cents  a  cake  for  soap  you  buy 
bad  perfumes  and  labels.  But  50  cents  is  doing  very 
well  for  a  young  man  in  your  generation,  position  and 
condition.  As  I  said,  you're  a  gentleman.  They  say 
it  takes  three  generations  to  make  one.  They're  off. 
Money'll  do  it  as  slick  as  soap  grease.  It's  made  you 


130  The  Four  Million 

one.  By  holcey!  it's  almost  made  one  of  me.  FIB. 
nearly  as  impolite  and  disagreeable  and  ill-mannered 
as  these  two  old  Knickerbocker  gents  on  each  side  of 
me  that  can't  sleep  of  nights  because  I  bought  in 
between  'em." 

"  There  are  some  things  that  money  can't  accom 
plish,"  remarked  young  Rockwall,  rather  gloomily. 

"  Now,  don't  say  that,"  said  old  Anthony,  shocked. 
"  I  bet  my  money  on  money  every  time.  I've  beea 
through  the  encyclopaedia  down  to  Y  looking  for 
something  you  can't  buy  with  it;  and  I  expect  to 
have  to  take  up  the  appendix  next  week.  I'm  for 
money  against  the  field.  Tell  me  something  money 
won't  buy." 

"  For  one  thing,"  answered  Richard,  rankling  a 
little,  "  it  won't  buy  one  into  the  exclusive  circles  of 
society." 

"  Oho !  won't  it  ?  "  thundered  the  champion  of  the 
root  of  evil.  "  You  tell  me  where  your  exclusive 
circles  would  be  if  the  first  Astor  hadn't  had  the 
money  to  pay  for  his  steerage  passage  over?  " 

Richard  sighed. 

"  And  that's  what  I  was  coming  to,"  said  the  old 
man,  less  boisterously.  "  That's  why  I  asked  you  to 
come  in.  There's  something  going  wrong  with  you, 
boy.  I've  been  noticing  it  for  two  weeks.  Out  with 


Mammon  and  the  Archer          131 

it.  I  guess  I  could  lay  my  hands  on  eleven  millions 
within  twenty-four  hours,  besides  the  real  estate. 
If  it's  your  liver,  there's  the  Rambler  down  in  the 
bay,  coaled,  and  ready  to  steam  down  to  the  Ba 
hamas  in  two  days." 

"  Not  a  bad  guess,  dad ;  you  haven't  missed  it 
far." 

"  Ah,"  said  Anthony,  keenly;  "  what's  her  name?  " 

Richard  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  library 
floor.  There  was  enough  comradeship  and  sympathy 
in  this  crude  old  father  of  his  to  draw  his  confidence. 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  her? "  demanded  old  An 
thony.  "  She'll  jump  at  you.  You've  got  the  money 
and  the  looks,  and  you're  a  decent  boy.  Your  hands 
are  clean.  You've  got  no  Eureka  soap  on  'em. 
You've  been  to  college,  but  she'll  overlook  that." 

"  I  haven't  had  a  chance,*'  said  Richard. 

"  Make  one,"  said  Anthony.  "  Take  her  for  a 
walk  in  the  park,  or  a  straw  ride,  or  walk  home  with 
her  from  church  Chance !  Pshaw !  " 

"  You  don't  know  the  social  mill,  dad.  She's  part 
of  the  stream  that  turns  it.  Every  hour  and  min 
ute  of  her  time  is  arranged  for  days  in  advance.  I 
must  have  that  girl,  dad,  or  this  town  is  a  black 
jack  swamp  forevermore.  And  I  can't  write  it  —  I 
can't  do  that." 


132  The  Four  Million 

"  Tut !  "  said  the  old  man.  "  Do  you  mean  to  teH 
me  that  with  all  the  money  I've  got  you  can't  get  an 
hour  or  two  of  a  girl's  time  for  yourself?  " 

"  I've  put  it  off  too  late.  She's  going  to  sail  for 
Europe  at  noon  day  after  to-morrow  for  a  two 
years'  stay.  I'm  to  see  her  alone  to-morrow  evening 
for  a  few  minutes.  She's  at  Larchmont  now  at  her 
aunt's.  I  can't  go  there.  But  I'm  allowed  to  meet 
her  with  a  cab  at  the  Grand  Central  Station  to-mor 
row  evening  at  the  8.30  train.  We  drive  down 
Broadway  to  Wallack's  at  a  gallop,  where  her  mother 
and  a  box  party  will  be  waiting  for  us  in  the  lobby. 
Do  you  think  she  would  listen  to  a  declaration  from 
me  during  that  six  or  eight  minutes  under  those  cir 
cumstances?  No.  And  what  chance  would  I  have 
in  the  theatre  or  afterward?  None.  No,  dad,  this 
is  one  tangle  that  your  money  can't  unravel.  We 
can't  buy  one  minute  of  time  with  cash;  if  we  could, 
rich  people  would  live  longer.  There's  no  hope  of 
getting  a  talk  with  Miss  Lantry  before  she  sails." 

"  All  right,  Richard,  my  boy,"  said  old  Anthony, 
cheerfully.  "  You  may  run  along  down  to  your  club 
now.  I'm  glad  it  ain't  your  liver.  But  don't  forget 
to  burn  a  few  punk  sticks  in  the  joss  house  to  the 
great  god  Mazuma  from  time  to  time.  You  say 
money  won't  buy  time?  Well,  of  course,  you  can't 


Mammon  and  the  Archer  133 

order  eternity  wrapped  up  and  delivered  at  your 
residence  for  a  price,  but  I've  seen  Father  Time  get 
pretty  bad  stone  bruises  on  his  heels  when  he  walked 
through  the  gold  diggings." 

That  night  came  Aunt  Ellen,  gentle,  sentimental, 
wrinkled,  sighing,  oppressed  by  wealth,  in  to  Brother 
Anthony  at  his  evening  paper,  and  began  discourse 
on  the  subject  of  lovers'  woes. 

"  He  told  me  all  about  it,"  said  brother  Anthony, 
yawning.  "  I  told  him  my  bank  account  was  at  his 
service.  And  then  he  began  to  knock  money.  Said 
money  couldn't  help.  Said  the  rules  of  society 
couldn't  be  bucked  for  a  yard  by  a  team  of  ten- 
millionaires." 

"  Oh,  Anthony,"  sighed  Aunt  Ellen,  "  I  wish  you 
would  not  think  so  much  of  money.  Wealth  is  noth 
ing  where  a  true  affection  is  concerned.  Love  is  all- 
powerful.  If  he  only  had  spoken  earlier !  She  could 
not  have  refused  our  Richard.  But  now  I  fear  it  is 
too  late.  He  will  have  no  opportunity  to  address  her. 
All  your  gold  cannot  bring  happiness  to  your  son." 

At  eight  o'clock  the  next  evening  Aunt  Ellen  took 
a  quaint  old  gold  ring  from  a  moth-eaten  case  and 
gave  it  to  Richard. 

"  Wear  it  to-night,  nephew,"  she  begged.  "  Your 
mother  gave  it  to  me.  Good  luck  in  love  she  said  it 


134  The  Four  Million 

brought.  She  asked  me  to  give  it  to  you  when  you 
had  found  the  one  you  loved." 

Young  Rockwall  took  the  ring  reverently  and  tried 
it  on  his  smallest  finger.  It  slipped  as  far  as  the 
second  joint  and  stopped.  He  took  it  off  and  stuffed 
it  into  his  vest  pocket,  after  the  manner  of  man.  And 
then  he  'phoned  for  his  cab. 

At  the  station  he  captured  Miss  Lantry  out  of  the 
gadding  mob  at  eight  thirty-two. 

"  We  mustn't  keep  mamma  and  the  others  waiting," 
said  she. 

"  To  Wallack's  Theatre  as  fast  as  you  can  drive !  " 
said  Richard  loyally. 

They  whirled  up  Forty-second  to  Broadway,  and 
then  down  the  white-starred  lane  that  leads  from 
the  soft  meadows  of  sunset  to  the  rocky  hills  of  morn 
ing. 

At  Thirty-fourth  Street  young  Richard  quickly 
thrust  up  the  trap  and  ordered  the  cabman  to  stop. 

"  I've  dropped  a  ring,"  he  apologised,  as  he 
climbed  out.  "  It  was  my  mother's,  and  I'd  hate  to 
lose  it.  I  won't  detain  you  a  minute  —  I  saw  where  it 
fell." 

In  less  than  a  minute  he  was  back  in  the  cab  with 
the  ring. 


Mammon  and  the  Archer          135 

But  within  that  minute  a  crosstown  car  had 
stopped  directly  in  front  of  the  cab.  The  cabman 
tried  to  pass  to  the  left,  but  a  heavy  express  wagon 
cut  him  off.  He  tried  the  right,  and  had  to  back 
away  from  a  furniture  van  that  had  no  business  to  be 
there.  He  tried  to  back  out,  but  dropped  his  reins 
and  swore  dutifully.  He  was  blockaded  in  a  tangled 
mess  of  vehicles  and  horses. 

One  of  those  street  blockades  had  occurred  that 
sometimes  tie  up  commerce  and  movement  quite  sud 
denly  in  the  big  city. 

"  Why  don't  you  drive  on  ?  "  said  Miss  Lantry,  im 
patiently.  "  We'll  be  late." 

Richard  stood  up  in  the  cab  and  looked  around. 
He  saw  a  congested  flood  of  wagons,  trucks,  cabs, 
vans  and  street  cars  filling  the  vast  space  where 
Broadway,  Sixth  Avenue  and  Thirty-fourth  street 
cross  one  another  as  a  twenty-six  inch  maiden  fills  her 
twenty-two  inch  girdle.  And  still  from  all  the  cross 
streets  they  were  hurrying  and  rattling  toward  the 
converging  point  at  full  speed,  and  hurling  them 
selves  into  the  struggling  mass,  locking  wheels  and 
adding  their  drivers'  imprecations  to  the  clamour. 
The  entire  traffic  of  Manhattan  seemed  to  have 
jammed  itself  around  them.  The  oldest  New  Yorker 


136  The  Four  Million 

among  the  thousands  of  spectators  that  lined  the 
sidewalks  had  not  witnessed  a  street  blockade  of  the 
proportions  of  this  one. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Richard,  as  he  resumed  his 
seat,  "  but  it  looks  as  if  we  are  stuck.  They  won't  get 
this  jumble  loosened  up  in  an  hour.  It  was  my 
fault.  If  I  hadn't  dropped  the  ring  we  — " 

"  Let  me  see  the  ring,"  said  Miss  Lantry.  "  Now 
that  it  can't  be  helped,  I  don't  care.  I  think  theatres 
are  stupid,  anyway." 

At  11  o'clock  that  night  somebody  tapped  lightly  on 
Anthony  Rockwall's  door. 

"  Come  in,"  shouted  Anthony,  who  was  in  a  red 
dressing-gown,  reading  a  book  of  piratical  adven 
tures. 

Somebody  was  Aunt  Ellen,  looking  like  a  grey- 
haired  angel  that  had  been  left  on  earth  by  mis 
take. 

"  They're  engaged,  Anthony,"  she  said,  softly. 
**  She  has  promised  to  marry  our  Richard.  On  their 
way  to  the  theatre  there  was  a  street  blockade,  and 
it  was  two  hours  before  their  cab  could  get  out  of  it. 

"  And  oh,  brother  Anthony,  don't  ever  boast  of 
the  power  of  money  again.  A  little  emblem  of  true 
love  —  a  little  ring  that  symbolised  unending  and 
unmercenary  affection  —  was  the  cause  of  our  Rich- 


Mammon  and  the  Archer  137 

and  finding  his  happiness.  He  dropped  it  in  the 
street,  and  got  out  to  recover  it.  And  before  they 
could  continue  the  blockade  occurred.  He  spoke  to 
his  love  and  won  her  there  while  the  cab  was  hemmed 
in.  Money  is  dross  compared  with  true  love, 
Anthony." 

"All  right,"  said  old  Anthony.  "I'm  glad  the 
boy  has  got  what  he  wanted.  I  told  him  I  wouldn't 
spare  any  expense  in  the  matter  if  — " 

"  But,  brother  Anthony,  what  good  could  you* 
money  have  done?  " 

"  Sister,"  said  Anthony  Rockwall.  "  I've  got  my 
pirate  in  a  devil  of  a  scrape.  His  ship  has  just  been 
scuttled,  and  he's  too  good  a  judge  of  the  value  of 
money  to  let  drown.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  go  on 
with  this  chapter." 

The  story  should  end  here.  I  wish  it  would  as 
heartily  as  you  who  read  it  wish  it  did.  But  we 
must  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  well  for  truth. 

The  next  day  a  person  with  red  hands  and  a  blue 
polka-dot  necktie,  who  called  himself  Kelly,  called  at 
Anthony  Rockwall's  house,  and  was  at  once  received 
in  the  library. 

"Well,"  said  Anthony,  reaching  for  his  cheque 
book,  "  it  was  a  good  bilin'  of  soap.  Let's  see  —  you 
had  $5,000  in  cash." 


138  The  Four  Million 

"  I  paid  out  $300  more  of  my  own,"  said  Kelly. 
"  I  had  to  go  a  little  above  the  estimate.  I  got  the 
express  wagons  and  cabs  mostly  for  $5 ;  but  the 
trucks  and  two-horse  teams  mostly  raised  me  to  $10. 
The  motormen  wanted  $10,  and  some  of  the  loaded 
teams  $20.  The  cops  struck  me  hardest  —  $50  I 
paid  two,  and  the  rest  $20  and  $25.  But  didn't  it 
work  beautiful,  Mr.  Rockwall?  I'm  glad  William 
A.  Brady  wasn't  onto  that  little  outdoor  vehicle  mob 
scene.  I  wouldn't  want  William  to  break  his  heart 
with  jealousy.  And  never  a  rehearsal,  either!  The 
boys  was  on  time  to  the  fraction  of  a  second.  It  was 
two  hours  before  a  snake  could  get  below  Greeley's 
statue." 

"  Thirteen  hundred  —  there  you  are,  Kelly,"  said 
Anthony,  tearing  off  a  check.  "  Your  thousand,  and 
the  $300  you  were  out.  You  don't  despise  money, 
do  you,  Kelly?" 

"  Me?  "  said  Kelly.  "  I  can  lick  the  man  that  in 
vented  poverty." 

Anthony  called  Kelly  when  he  was  at  the  door. 

"  You  didn't  notice,"  said  he,  "  anywhere  in  the 
tie-up,  a  kind  of  a  fat  boy  without  any  clothes  on 
shooting  arrows  around  with  a  bow,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Kelly,  mystified.     "  I  didn't.    If 


Mammon  and  the  Archer  139 

he  was  like  you  say,  maybe  the  cops  pinched  him  be 
fore  I  got  there." 

"  I  thought  the  little  rascal  wouldn't  be  on  hand," 
chuckled  Anthony.     "  Good-by,  Kelly." 


SPRINGTIME      LA  CARTE 

IT  was  a  day  in  March. 

Never,  never  begin  a  story  this  way  when  you 
write  one.  No  opening  could  possibly  be  worse.  It 
is  unimaginative,  flat,  dry  and  likely  to  consist  of 
mere  wind.  But  in  this  instance  it  is  allowable.  For 
the  following  paragraph,  which  should  have  in 
augurated  the  narrative,  is  too  wildly  extravagant 
and  preposterous  to  be  flaunted  in  the  face  of  the 
reader  without  preparation. 

Sarah  was  crying  over  her  bill  of  fare. 

Think  of  a  New  York  girl  shedding  tears  on  the 
menu  card ! 

To  account  for  this  you  will  be  allowed  to  guess 
that  the  lobsters  were  all  out,  or  that  she  had  sworn 
ice-cream  off  during  Lent,  or  that  she  had  ordered 
onions,  or  that  she  had  just  come  from  a  Hackett 
toatinee.  And  then,  all  these  theories  being  wrong, 
you  will  please  let  the  story  proceed. 

The  gentleman  who  announced  that  the  world  was 
an  oyster  which  he  with  his  sword  would  open  made 

a  larger  hit  than  he  deserved.     It  is  not  difficult  to 

140 


Springtime  a  la  Carte  141 

open  an  oyster  with  a  sword.  But  did  you  ever  no 
tice  any  one  try  to  open  the  terrestrial  bivalve  with  a 
typewriter?  Like  to  wait  for  a  dozen  raw  opened  that 
way? 

Sarah  had  managed  to  pry  apart  the  shells  with 
her  unhandy  weapon  far  enough  to  nibble  a  wee  bit 
at  the  cold  and  clammy  world  within.  She  knew  no 
more  shorthand  than  if  she  had  been  a  graduate  in 
stenography  just  let  slip  upon  the  world  by  a  busi 
ness  college.  So,  not  being  able  to  stenog,  she  could 
not  enter  that  bright  galaxy  of  office  talent.  She 
was  a  free-lance  typewriter  and  canvassed  for  odd 
jobs  of  copying. 

The  most  brilliant  and  crowning  feat  of  Sarah's 
battle  with  the  world  was  the  deal  she  made  with 
Schulenberg's  Home  Restaurant.  The  restaurant 
was  next  door  to  the  old  red  brick  in  which  she  hall- 
roomed.  One  evening  after  dining  at  Schulenberg's 
40-cent,  five-course  table  d'hote  (served  as  fast  as 
you  throw  the  five  baseballs  at  the  coloured  gen 
tleman's  head)  Sarah  took  away  with  her  the  bill  of 
fare.  It  was  written  in  an  almost  unreadable  script 
neither  English  nor  German,  and  so  arranged  that 
if  you  were  not  careful  you  began  with  a  toothpick 
and  rice  pudding  and  ended  with  soup  and  the  day  of 
the  week. 


142  The  Four  Million 

The  next  day  Sarah  showed  Schulenberg  a  neat 
card  on  which  the  menu  was  beautifully  typewritten 
with  the  viands  temptingly  marshalled  under  their 
right  and  proper  heads  from  "  hors  d'oeuvre  "  to  "  not 
responsible  for  overcoats  »Jid  umbrellas." 

Schulenberg  became  a  naturalised  citizen  on  the 
spot.  Before  Sarah  left  him  she  had  him  willingly 
committed  to  an  agreement.  She  was  to  furnish 
typewritten  bills  of  fare  for  the  twenty-one  tables  in 
the  restaurant  —  a  new  bill  for  each  day's  dinner,  and 
new  ones  for  breakfast  and  lunch  as  often  as  changes 
occurred  in  the  food  or  as  neatness  required. 

In  return  for  this  Schulenberg  was  to  send  three 
meals  per  diem  to  Sarah's  hall  room  by  a  waiter  —  an 
obsequious  one  if  possible  —  and  furnish  her  each 
afternoon  with  a  pencil  draft  of  what  Fate  had 
in  store  for  Schulenberg's  customers  on  the  morrow. 

Mutual  satisfaction  resulted  from  the  agreement. 
Schulenberg's  patrons  now  knew  what  the  food  they 
ate  was  called  even  if  its  nature  sometimes  puzzled 
them.  And  Sarah  had  food  during  a  cold,  dull 
winter,  which  was  the  main  thing  with  her. 

And  then  the  almanac  lied,  and  said  that  spring 
had  come.  Spring  comes  when  it  comes.  The  frozen 
snows  of  January  still  lay  like  adamant  in  the  cross- 
town  streets.  The  hand-organs  still  played  "  In  the 


Springtime  a  la  Carte  143 

Good  Old  Summertime,"  with  their  December  vivac 
ity  and  expression.  Men  began  to  make  thirty-day 
notes  to  buy  Easter  dresses.  Janitors  shut  off  steam. 
And  when  these  things  happen  one  may  know  that 
the  city  is  still  in  the  clutches  of  winter. 

One  afternoon  Sarah  shivered  in  her  elegant  hall 
bedroom ;  "  house  heated ;  scrupulously  clean ;  con 
veniences  ;  seen  to  be  appreciated."  She  had  no  work 
to  do  except  Schulenberg's  menu  cards.  Sarah  sat 
in  her  squeaky  willow  rocker,  and  looked  out  the  win 
dow.  The  calendar  on  the  wall  kept  crying  to  her: 
"  Springtime  is  here,  Sarah  —  springtime  is  here,  I 
tell  you.  Look  at  me,  Sarah,  my  figures  show  it. 
You've  got  a  neat  figure  yourself,  Sarah  —  a  —  nice 
springtime  figure  —  why  do  you  look  out  the  window 
so  sadly  ?  " 

Sarah's  room  was  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Look 
ing  out  the  window  she  could  see  the  windowless 
rear  brick  wall  of  the  box  factory  on  the  next  street. 
But  the  wall  was  clearest  crystal ;  and  Sarah  was  look 
ing  down  a  grassy  lane  shaded  with  cherry  trees  and 
elms  and  bordered  with  raspberry  bushes  and  Chero 
kee  roses. 

Spring's  real  harbingers  are  too  subtle  for  the 
eye  and  ear.  Some  must  have  the  flowering  crocus, 
the  wood-starring  dogwood,  the  voice  of  bluebird  — 


144  The  Four  Million 

even  so  gross  a  reminder  as  the  farewell  handshake 
of  the  retiring  buckwheat  and  oyster  before  they  can 
welcome  the  Lady  in  Green  to  their  dull  bosoms.  But 
to  old  earth's  choicest  kin  there  come  straight,  sweet 
messages  from  his  newest  bride,  telling  them  they 
shall  be  no  stepchildren  unless  they  choose  to  be. 

On  the  previous  summer  Sarah  had  gone  into  the 
country  and  loved  a  farmer. 

(In  writing  your  story  never  hark  back  thus.  It 
is  bad  art,  and  cripples  interest.  Let  it  march, 
march. ) 

Sarah  stayed  two  weeks  at  Sunnybrook  Farm. 
There  she  learned  to  love  old  Farmer  Franklin's  son 
Walter.  Farmers  have  been  loved  and  wedded  and 
turned  out  to  grass  in  less  time.  But  young  Walter 
Franklin  was  a  modern  agriculturist.  He  had  a  tele 
phone  in  his  cow  house,  and  he  could  figure  up  ex 
actly  what  effect  next  year's  Canada  wheat  crop 
would  have  on  potatoes  planted  in  the  dark  of  the 
moon. 

It  was  in  this  shaded  and  raspberried  lane  that 
Walter  had  wooed  and  won  her.  And  together  they 
had  sat  and  woven  a  crown  of  dandelions  for  her 
hair.  He  had  immoderately  praised  the  effect  of  the 
yellow  blossoms  against  her  brown  tresses;  and  she 


Springtime  a  la  Carte  145 

had  left  the  chaplet  there,  and  walked  back  to  the 
house  swinging  her  straw  sailor  in  her  hands. 

They  were  to  marry  in  the  spring  —  at  the  very 
first  signs  of  spring,  Walter  said.  And  Sarah  came 
back  to  the  city  to  pound  her  typewriter. 

A  knock  at  the  door  dispelled  Sarah's  visions  of 
that  happy  day.  A  waiter  had  brought  the  rough 
pencil  draft  of  the  Home  Restaurant's  next  day  fare 
in  old  Schulenberg's  angular  hand. 

Sarah  sat  down  to  her  typewriter  and  slipped  a 
card  between  the  rollers.  She  was  a  nimble  worker. 
Generally  in  an  hour  and  a  half  the  twenty-one  menu 
cards  were  written  and  ready. 

To-day  there  were  more  changes  on  the  bill  of  fare 
than  usual.  The  soups  were  lighter ;  pork  was  elimi 
nated  from  the  entrees,  figuring  only  with  Russian 
turnips  among  the  roasts.  The  gracious  spirit  of 
spring  pervaded  the  entire  menu.  Lamb,  that  lately 
capered  on  the  greening  hillsides,  was  becoming  ex 
ploited  with  the  sauce  that  commemorated  its  gambols. 
The  song  of  the  oyster,  though  not  silenced,  was 
diminuendo  con  amore.  The  frying-pan  seemed  to 
be  held,  inactive,  behind  the  beneficent  bars  of  the 
broiler.  The  pie  list  swelled ;  the  richer  puddings  had 
vanished;  the  sausage,  with  his  drapery  wrapped 


146  The  Four  Million 

about  him,  barely  lingered  in  a  pleasant  thanatopsia 
with  the  buckwheats  and  the  sweet  but  doomed  maple. 

Sarah's  fingers  danced  like  midgets  above  a  sum 
mer  stream.  Down  through  the  courses  she  worked, 
giving  each  item  its  position  according  to  its  length 
with  an  accurate  eye. 

Just  above  the  desserts  came  the  list  of  vegetables. 
Carrots  and  peas,  asparagus  on  toast,  the  perennial 
tomatoes  and  corn  and  succotash,  lima  beans,  cab 
bage  —  and  then  — 

Sarah  was  crying  over  her  bill  of  fare.  Tears 
from  the  depths  of  some  divine  despair  rose  in  her 
heart  and  gathered  to  her  eyes.  Down  went  her  head 
on  the  little  typewriter  stand;  and  the  keyboard 
rattled  a  dry  accompaniment  to  her  moist  sobs. 

For  she  had  received  no  letter  from  Walter  in  two 
weeks,  and  the  next  item  on  the  bill  of  fare  was 
dandelions  —  dandelions  with  some  kind  of  egg  — 
but  bother  the  egg !  —  dandelions,  with  whose  golden 
blooms  Walter  had  crowned  her  his  queen  of  love 
and  future  bride  —  dandelions,  the  harbingers  of 
spring,  her  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  —  reminder  of 
her  happiest  days. 

Madam,  I  dare  you  to  smile  until  you  suffer  this 
test:  Let  the  Marechal  Niel  roses  that  Percy 
brought  you  on  the  night  you  gave  him  your  heart 


Springtime  a  la  Carte  147 

be  served  as  a  salad  with  French  dressing  before 
your  eyes  at  a  Schulenberg  table  d'hote.  Had  Juliet 
so  seen  her  love  tokens  dishonoured  the  sooner  would 
she  have  sought  the  lethean  herbs  of  the  good  apoth 
ecary. 

But  what  a  witch  is  Spring!  Into  the  great  cold 
city  of  stone  and  iron  a  message  had  to  be  sent. 
There  was  none  to  convey  it  but  the  little  hardy 
courier  of  the  fields  with  his  rough  green  coat  and 
modest  air.  He  is  a  true  soldier  of  fortune,  this 
dent-de-lion  —  this  lion's  tooth,  as  the  French  chefs 
call  him.  Flowered,  he  will  assist  at  love-making, 
wreathed  in  my  lady's  nut-brown  hair;  young  and 
callow  and  unblossomed,  he  goes  into  the  boiling  pot 
and  delivers  the  word  of  his  sovereign  mistress. 

By  and  by  Sarah  forced  back  her  tears.  The 
cards  must  be  written.  But,  still  in  a  faint,  golden 
glow  from  her  dandeleonine  dream,  she  fingered  the 
typewriter  keys  absently  for  a  little  while,  with  her 
mind  and  heart  in  the  meadow  lane  with  her  young 
farmer.  But  soon  she  came  swiftly  back  to  the 
rock-bound  lanes  of  Manhattan,  and  the  typewriter 
began  to  rattle  and  jump  like  a  strike-breaker's 
motor  car. 

At  6  o'clock  the  waiter  brought  her  dinner  and 
carried  away  the  typewritten  bill  of  fare.  When 


148  The  Four  Million 

Sarah  ate  she  set  aside,  with  a  sigh,  the  dish  of 
dandelions  with  its  crowning  ovarious  accompani 
ment.  As  this  dark  mass  had  been  transformed 
from  a  bright  and  love-indorsed  flower  to  be  an 
ignominious  vegetable,  so  had  her  summer  hopes 
wilted  and  perished.  Love  may,  as  Shakespeare  said, 
feed  on  itself:  but  Sarah  could  not  bring  herself 
to  eat  the  dandelions  that  had  graced,  as  ornaments, 
the  first  spiritual  banquet  of  her  heart's  true  affec 
tion. 

At  7.30  the  couple  in  the  next  room  began  to  quar 
rel:  the  man  in  the  room  above  sought  for  A  on  his 
flute;  the  gas  went  a  little  lower;  three  coal  wagons 
started  to  unload  —  the  only  sound  of  which  the 
phonograph  is  jealous;  cats  on  the  back  fences 
slowly  retreated  toward  Mukden.  By  these  signs 
Sarah  knew  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  read.  She 
got  out  "The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,"  the  best 
non-selling  book  of  the  month,  settled  her  feet  on  her 
trunk,  and  began  to  wander  with  Gerard. 

The  front  door  bell  rang.  The  landlady  answered 
it.  Sarah  left  Gerard  and  Denys  treed  by  a  bear 
and  listened.  Oh,  yes;  you  would,  just  as  she  did! 

And  then  a  strong  voice  was  heard  in  the  hall 
below,  and  Sarah  jumped  for  her  door,  leaving  the 


Springtime  a  la  Carte  149 

book  on  the  floor  and  the  first  round  easily  the  bear's. 

You  have  guessed  it.  She  reached  the  top  of  the 
stairs  just  as  her  farmer  came  up,  three  at  a  jump, 
and  reaped  and  garnered  her,  with  nothing  left  for 
the  gleaners. 

"  Why  haven't  you  written  —  oh,  why  ?  "  cried 
Sarah. 

"  New  York  is  a  pretty  large  town,"  said  Walter 
Franklin.  **  I  came  in  a  week  ago  to  your  old  ad 
dress.  I  found  that  you  went  away  on  a  Thursday, 
That  consoled  some;  it  eliminated  the  possible  Fri 
day  bad  luck.  But  it  didn't  prevent  my  hunting 
for  you  with  police  and  otherwise  ever  since ! " 

"  I  wrote ! "  said  Sarah,  vehemently. 

"Never  got  it!" 

"  Then  how  did  you  find  me?  " 

The  young  farmer  smiled  a  springtime  smile. 

"  I  dropped  into  that  Home  Restaurant  next  door 
this  evening,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  care  who  knows  it ; 
I  like  a  dish  of  some  kind  of  greens  at  this  time  of 
the  year.  I  ran  my  eye  down  that  nice  typewritten 
bill  of  fare  looking  for  something  in  that  line.  When 
I  got  below  cabbage  I  turned  my  chair  over  and  hol 
lered  for  the  proprietor.  He  told  me  where  you 
lived." 


150  The  Four  Million 

"  I  remember,"  sighed  Sarah,  happily.  "  That 
was  dandelions  below  cabbage." 

"  I'd  know  that  cranky  capital  W  'way  above  the 
line  that  your  typewriter  makes  anywhere  in  the 
world,"  said  Franklin. 

"  Why,  there's  no  W  in  dandelions,"  said  Sarah, 
in  surprise. 

The  young  man  drew  the  bill  of  fare  from  his 
pocket,  and  pointed  to  a  line. 

Sarah  recognised  the  first  card  she  had  typewrit 
ten  that  afternoon.  There  was  still  the  rayed 
splotch  in  the  upper  right-hand  corner  where  a  tear 
had  fallen.  But  over  the  spot  where  one  should  have 
read  the  name  of  the  meadow  plant,  the  clinging 
memory  of  their  golden  blossoms  had  allowed  her 
fingers  to  strike  strange  keys. 

Between  the  red  cabbage  and  the  stuffed  green  pep 
pers  was  the  item: 

"DEAREST  WALTER,  WITH  HARD- 
BOILED  EGG." 


THE  GREEN  DOOR 

SUPPOSE  you  should  be  walking  down  Broad 
way  after  dinner,  with  ten  minutes  allotted  to 
the  consummation  of  your  cigar  while  you  are 
choosing  between  a  diverting  tragedy  and  some 
thing  serious  in  the  way  of  vaudeville.  Suddenly  a 
hand  is  laid  upon  your  arm.  You  turn  to  look  into  the 
thrilling  eyes  of  a  beautiful  woman,  wonderful  in  dia 
monds  and  Russian  sables.  She  thrusts  hurriedly 
into  your  hand  an  extremely  hot  buttered  roll, 
flashes  out  a  tiny  pair  of  scissors,  snips  off  the  sec 
ond  button  of  your  overcoat,  meaningly  ejaculates 
the  one  word,  "  parallelogram ! "  and  swiftly  flies 
down  a  cross  street,  looking  back  fearfully  over  her 
shoulder. 

That  would  be  pure  adventure.  Would  you  ac 
cept  it?  Not  you.  You  would  flush  with  embar 
rassment;  you  would  sheepishly  drop  the  roll  and 
continue  down  Broadway,  fumbling  feebly  for  the 
missing  button.  This  you  would  do  unless  you  are 
one  of  the  blessed  few  in  whom  the  pure  spirit  of  ad 
venture  is  not  dead. 

151 


152  The  Four  Million 

True  adventurers  have  never  been  plentiful.  They; 
who  are  set  down  in  print  as  such  have  been  mostly 
business  men  with  newly  invented  methods.  They 
have  been  out  after  the  things  they  wanted  —  golden 
fleeces,  holy  grails,  lady  loves,  treasure,  crowns  and 
fame.  The  true  adventurer  goes  forth  aimless  and 
uncalculating  to  meet  and  greet  unknown  fate.  A 
fine  example  was  the  Prodigal  Son  • — •  when  he  started 
back  home. 

Half-adventurers  —  brave  and  splendid  figures  — « 
have  been  numerous.  From  the  Crusades  to  the 
Palisades  they  have  enriched  the  arts  of  history  and 
fiction  and  the  trade  of  historical  fiction.  But  each 
of  them  had  a  prize  to  win,  a  goal  to  kick,  an  axe  to 
grind,  a  race  to  run,  a  new  thrust  in  tierce  to  deliver, 
a  name  to  carve,  a  crow  to  pick  —  so  they  were  not 
followers  of  true  adventure. 

In  the  big  city  the  twin  spirits  Romance  and  Ad 
venture  are  always  abroad  seeking  worthy  wooers. 
As  we  roam  the  streets  they  slyly  peep  at  us  and 
challenge  us  in  twenty  different  guises.  Without 
knowing  why,  we  look  up  suddenly  to  see  in  a  win 
dow  a  face  that  seems  to  belong  to  our  gallery  of 
intimate  portraits;  in  a  sleeping  thoroughfare  we 
hear  a  cry  of  agony  and  fear  coming  from  an  empty 
and  shuttered  house;  instead  of  at  our  familiar  curb 


The  Green  Door  153 

a  cab-driver  deposits  us  before  a  strange  door,  which 
one,  with  a  smile,  opens  for  us  and  bids  us  enter; 
a  slip  of  paper,  written  upon,  flutters  down  to  our 
feet  from  the  high  lattices  of  Chance;  we  exchange 
glances  of  instantaneous  hate,  affection  and  fear  with 
hurrying  strangers  in  the  passing  crowds;  a  sudden 
souse  of  rain  —  and  our  umbrella  may  be  sheltering 
the  daughter  of  the  Full  Moon  and  first  cousin  of  the 
Sidereal  System;  at  every  corner  handkerchiefs 
drop,  fingers  beckon,  eyes  besiege,  and  the  lost,  the 
lonely,  the  rapturous,  the  mysterious,  the  perilous, 
changing  clues  of  adventure  are  slipped  into  our 
fingers.  But  few  of  us  are  willing  to  hold  and  follow 
them.  We  are  grown  stiff  with  the  ramrod  of  con 
vention  down  our  backs.  We  pass  on ;  and  some  day 
we  come,  at  the  end  of  a  very  dull  life,  to  reflect  that 
our  romance  has  been  a  pallid  thing  of  a  marriage  or 
two,  a  satin  rosette  kept  in  a  safe-deposit  drawer, 
and  a  lifelong  feud  with  a  steam  radiator. 

Rudolf  Steiner  was  a  true  adventurer.  Few  were 
the  evenings  on  which  he  did  not  go  forth  from  his 
hall  bedchamber  in  search  of  the  unexpected  and  the 
egregious.  The  most  interesting  thing  in  life  seemed 
to  him  to  be  what  might  lie  just  around  the  next 
corner.  Sometimes  his  willingness  to  tempt  fate  led 
him  into  strange  paths.  Twice  he  had  spent  the 


154  The  Four  Million 

night  in  a  station-house;  again  and  again  he  had 
found  himself  the  dupe  of  ingenious  and  mercenary 
tricksters;  his  watch  and  money  had  been  the  price 
of  one  flattering  allurement.  But  with  undiminished 
ardour  he  picked  up  every  glove  cast  before  him  into 
the  merry  lists  of  adventure. 

One  evening  Rudolf  was  strolling  along  a  cross- 
town  street  in  the  older  central  part  of  the  city. 
Two  streams  of  people  filled  the  sidewalks  —  the 
home-hurrying,  and  that  restless  contingent  that 
abandons  home  for  the  specious  welcome  of  the  thou 
sand-candle-power  table  d'hote. 

The  young  adventurer  was  of  pleasing  presence, 
and  moved  serenely  and  watchfully.  By  daylight  he 
was  a  salesman  in  a  piano  store.  He  wore  his  tie 
drawn  through  a  topaz  ring  instead  of  fastened  with 
a  stick  pin ;  and  once  he  had  written  to  the  editor  of  a 
magazine  that  "  Junie's  Love  Test,"  by  Miss  Libbey, 
had  been  the  book  that  had  most  influenced  his  life. 

During  his  walk  a  violent  chattering  of  teeth  in  a 
glass  case  on  the  sidewalk  seemed  at  first  to  draw  his 
attention  (with  a  qualm),  to  a  restaurant  before 
which  it  was  set;  but  a  second  glance  revealed  the 
electric  letters  of  a  dentist's  sign  high  above  the 
next  door.  A  giant  negro,  fantastically  dressed  in 
a  red  embroidered  coat,  yellow  trousers  and  a  mill- 


The  Green  Door  155 

tary  cap,  discreetly  distributed  cards  to  those  of  the 
passing  crowd  who  consented  to  take  them. 

This  mode  of  dentistic  advertising  was  a  common 
sight  to  Rudolf.  Usually  he  passed  the  dispenser  of 
the  dentist's  cards  without  reducing  his  store;  but 
to-night  the  African  slipped  one  into  his  hand  so 
deftly  that  he  retained  it  there  smiling  a  little  at  the 
successful  feat. 

When  he  had  travelled  a  few  yards  further  he 
glanced  at  the  card  indifferently.  Surprised,  he 
turned  it  over  and  looked  again  with  interest.  One 
side  of  the  card  was  blank;  on  the  other  was  written 
in  ink  three  words,  "  The  Green  Door."  And  then 
Rudolf  saw,  three  steps  in  front  of  him,  a  man  throw 
down  the  card  the  negro  had  given  him  as  he  passed. 
Rudolf  picked  it  up.  It  was  printed  with  the 
dentist's  name  and  address  and  the  usual  schedule 
of  "  plate  work  "  and  "  bridge  work  "  and  "  crowns," 
and  specious  promises  of  "  painless  "  operations. 

The  adventurous  piano  salesman  halted  at  the  cor 
ner  and  considered.  Then  he  crossed  the  street, 
walked  down  a  block,  recrossed  and  joined  the  up 
ward  current  of  people  again.  Without  seeming  to 
notice  the  negro  as  he  passed  the  second  time,  he 
carelessly  took  the  card  that  was  handed  him.  Ten 
steps  away  he  inspected  it.  In  the  same  handwriting 


156  The  Four  Million 

that  appeared  on  the  first  card  "  The  Green  Door  " 
was  inscribed  upon  it.  Three  or  four  cards  were 
tossed  to  the  pavement  by  pedestrians  both  following 
and  leading  him.  These  fell  blank  side  up.  Rudolf 
turned  them  over.  Every  one  bore  the  printed  legend 
of  the  dental  "  parlours." 

Rarely  did  the  arch  sprite  Adventure  need  to 
beckon  twice  to  Rudolf  Steiner,  his  true  follower. 
But  twice  it  had  been  done,  and  the  quest  was  on. 

Rudolf  walked  slowly  back  to  where  the  giant 
negro  stood  by  the  case  of  rattling  teeth.  This 
time  as  he  passed  he  received  no  card.  In  spite  of  his 
gaudy  and  ridiculous  garb,  the  Ethiopian  displayed 
a  natural  barbaric  dignity  as  he  stood,  offering  the 
cards  suavely  to  some,  allowing  others  to  pass  unmo 
lested.  Every  half  minute  he  chanted  a  harsh,  un 
intelligible  phrase  akin  to  the  jabber  of  car  con 
ductors  and  grand  opera.  And  not  only  did  he 
withhold  a  card  this  time,  but  it  seemed  to  Rudolf 
that  he  received  from  the  shining  and  massive  black 
countenance  a  look  of  cold,  almost  contemptuous  dis 
dain. 

The  look  stung  the  adventurer.  He  read  in  it  a 
silent  accusation  that  he  had  been  found  wanting. 
Whatever  the  mysterious  written  words  on  the  cards 


The  Green  Door  157 

might  mean,  the  black  had  selected  him  twice  from 
the  throng  for  their  recipient;  and  now  seemed  to 
have  condemned  him  as  deficient  in  the  wit  and  spirit 
to  engage  the  enigma. 

Standing  aside  from  the  rush,  the  young  man 
made  a  rapid  estimate  of  the  building  in  which  he 
conceived  that  his  adventure  must  lie.  Five  stories 
high  it  rose.  A  small  restaurant  occupied  the  base 
ment. 

The  first  floor,  now  closed,  seemed  to  house 
millinery  or  furs.  The  second  floor,  by  the  winking 
electric  letters,  was  the  dentist's.  Above  this  a  poly 
glot  babel  of  signs  struggled  to  indicate  the  abodes 
of  palmists,  dressmakers,  musicians  and  doctors. 
Still  higher  up  draped  curtains  and  milk  bottles  white 
on  the  window  sills  proclaimed  the  regions  of  do 
mesticity. 

After  concluding  his  survey  Rudolf  walked  briskly 
up  the  high  flight  of  stone  steps  into  the  house.  Up 
two  flights  of  the  carpeted  stairway  he  continued; 
and  at  its  top  paused.  The  hallway  there  was  dimly 
lighted  by  two  pale  jets  of  gas  —  one  far  to  his  right, 
the  other  nearer,  to  his  left.  He  looked  toward  the 
nearer  light  and  saw,  within  its  wan  halo,  a  green 
door.  For  one  moment  he  hesitated;  then  he  seemed 


158  The  Four  Million 

to  see  the  contumelious  sneer  of  the  African  juggler 
of  cards;  and  then  he  walked  straight  to  the  green 
door  and  knocked  against  it. 

Moments  like  those  that  passed  before  his  knock 
was  answered  measure  the  quick  breath  of  true  ad 
venture.  What  might  not  be  behind  those  green 
panels  !  Gamesters  at  play ;  cunning  rogues  baiting 
their  traps  with  subtle  skill;  beauty  in  love  with 
courage,  and  thus  planning  to  be  sought  by  it; 
danger,  death,  love,  disappointment,  ridicule  —  any 
of  these  might  respond  to  that  temerarious  rap. 

A  faint  rustle  was  heard  inside,  and  the  door 
slowly  opened.  A  girl  not  yet  twenty  stood  there, 
white-faced  and  tottering.  She  loosed  the  knob  and 
Swayed  weakly,  groping  with  one  hand.  Rudolf 
caught  her  and  laid  her  on  a  faded  couch  that  stood 
against  the  wall.  He  closed  the  door  and  took  a 
swift  glance  around  the  room  by  the  light  of  a  flicker 
ing  gas  jet.  Neat,  but  extreme  poverty  was  the 
story  that  he  read. 

The  girl  lay  still,  as  if  in  a  faint.  Rudolf  looked 
around  the  room  excitedly  for  a  barrel.  People  must 
be  rolled  upon  a  barrel  who  —  no,  no ;  that  was  for 
drowned  persons.  He  began  to  fan  her  with  his  hat. 
That  was  successful,  for  he  struck  her  nose  with  the 
*>rim  of  his  derby  and  she  opened  her  eyes.  And 


The  Green  Door  159 

then  the  young  man  saw  that  hers,  indeed,  was  the 
one  missing  face  from  his  heart's  gallery  of  inti 
mate  portraits.  The  frank,  grey  eyes,  the  little 
nose,  turning  pertly  outward;  the  chestnut  hair, 
curling  like  the  tendrils  of  a  pea  vine,  seemed  the 
right  end  and  reward  of  all  his  wonderful  adventures. 
But  the  face  was  wofully  thin  and  pale. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  calmly,  and  then  smiled. 

"  Fainted,  didn't  I?  "  she  asked,  weakly.  "  Well, 
who  wouldn't?  You  try  going  without  anything  to 
eat  for  three  days  and  see !  " 

"Himmel!"  exclaimed  Rudolf,  jumping  up. 
"  Wait  till  I  come  back." 

He  dashed  out  the  green  door  and  down  the  stairs. 
In  twenty  minutes  he  was  back  again,  kicking  at  the 
door  with  his  toe  for  her  to  open  it.  With  both  arms 
he  hugged  an  array  of  wares  from  the  grocery  and 
the  restaurant.  On  the  table  he  laid  them  —  bread 
and  butter,  cold  meats,  cakes,  pies,  pickles,  oysters, 
a  roasted  chicken,  a  bottle  of  milk  and  one  of  red- 
hot  tea. 

"  This  is  ridiculous,"  said  Rudolf,  blusteringly, 
*'  to  go  without  eating.  You  must  quit  making  elec 
tion  bets  of  this  kind.  Supper  is  ready."  He  helped 
her  to  a  chair  at  the  table  and  asked :  "  Is  there  a 
cup  for  the  tea  ?  "  "  On  the  shelf  by  the  window," 


160  The  Four  Million 

she  answered.  When  he  turned  again  with  the  cup 
he  saw  her,  with  eyes  shining  rapturously,  begin 
ning  upon  a  huge  Dill  pickle  that  she  had  rooted 
out  from  the  paper  bags  with  a  woman's  unerring  in 
stinct.  He  took  it  from  her,  laughingly,  and  poured 
the  cup  full  of  milk.  "  Drink  that  first,"  he  ordered, 
"  and  then  you  shall  have  some  tea,  and  then  a 
chicken  wing.  If  you  are  very  good  you  shall  have 
a  pickle  to-morrow.  And  now,  if  you'll  allow  me  to 
be  your  guest  we'll  have  supper." 

He  drew  up  the  other  chair.  The  tea  brightened 
the  girl's  eyes  and  brought  back  some  of  her  colour. 
She  began  to  eat  with  a  sort  of  dainty  ferocity 
like  some  starved  wild  animal.  She  seemed  to  regard 
the  young  man's  presence  and  the  aid  he  had  ren 
dered  her  as  a  natural  thing  —  not  as  though  she 
undervalued  the  conventions;  but  as  one  whose  great 
stress  gave  her  the  right  to  put  aside  the  artificial 
for  the  human.  But  gradually,  with  the  return  of 
strength  and  comfort,  came  also  a  sense  of  the  little 
conventions  that  belong;  and  she  began  to  tell  him 
her  little  story.  It  was  one  of  a  thousand  such  as 
the  city  yawns  at  every  day  —  the  shop  girl's  story 
of  insufficient  wages,  further  reduced  by  "  fines " 
that  go  to  swell  the  store's  profits;  of  time  lost 
through  illness ;  and  then  of  lost  positions,  lost  hope, 


and- 
door. 

But  to  Rudolf  the  history  sounded  as  big  as  the 
Iliad  or  the  crisis  in  "  Junie's  Love  Test." 

"  To  think  of  you  going  through  all  that,"  he  ex 
claimed. 

"  It  was  something  fierce,"  said  the  girl,  solemnly. 

"  And  you  have  no  relatives  or  friends  in  the 
city?" 

"  None  whatever." 

"  I  am  all  alone  in  the  world,  too,"  said  Rudolf, 
after  a  pause. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  the  girl,  promptly ;  and 
somehow  it  pleased  the  young  man  to  hear  that  she 
approved  of  his  bereft  condition. 

Very  suddenly  her  eyelids  dropped  and  she  sighed 
deeply. 

"  I'm  awfully  sleepy,"  she  said,  "  and  I  feel  so 
good." 

Rudolf  rose  and  took  his  hat. 

"  Then  I'll  say  good-night.  A  long  night's  sleep 
will  be  fine  for  you." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  took  it  and  said 
"  good-night."  But  her  eyes  asked  a  question  so 
eloquently,  so  frankly  and  pathetically  that  he  an 
swered  it  with  words. 


162  The  Four  Million 

"  Oh,  I'm  coming  back  to-morrow  to  see  how  you 
are  getting  along.  You  can't  get  rid  of  me  so 
easily." 

Then,  at  the  door,  as  though  the  way  of  his 
coming  had  been  so  much  less  important  than  the 
fact  that  he  had  come,  she  asked :  -  "  How  did  you 
come  to  knock  at  my  door?  " 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  remembering  the 
cards,  and  felt  a  sudden  jealous  pain.  What  if  they 
had  fallen  into  other  hands  as  adventurous  as  his? 
Quickly  he  decided  that  she  must  never  know  the 
truth.  He  would  never  let  her  know  that  he  was 
aware  of  the  strange  expedient  to  which  she  had 
been  driven  by  her  great  distress. 

"  One  of  our  piano  tuners  lives  in  this  house,"  he 
said.  "  I  knocked  at  your  door  by  mistake." 

The  last  thing  he  saw  in  the  room  before  the  green 
door  closed  was  her  smile. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairway  he  paused  and  looked 
curiously  about  him.  And  then  he  went  along  the 
hallway  to  its  other  end ;  and,  coming  back,  ascended 
to  the  floor  above  and  continued  his  puzzled  explora 
tions.  Every  door  that  he  found  in  the  house  was 
painted  green. 

Wondering,  he  descended  to   the  sidewalk.     The 


The  Green  Door  163 

fantastic  African  was  still  there.  Rudolf  confronted 
him  with  his  two  cards  in  his  hand. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  why  you  gave  me  these  cards 
and  what  they  mean  ?  "  he  asked. 

In  a  broad,  good-natured  grin  the  negro  exhib 
ited  a  splendid  advertisement  of  his  master's  profes 
sion. 

"  Dar  it  is,  boss,"  he  said,  pointing  down  the 
street.  "  But  I  'spect  you  is  a  little  late  for  de  fust 
act." 

Looking  the  way  he  pointed  Rudolf  saw  above  the 
entrance  to  a  theatre  the  blazing  electric  sign  of  its 
new  play,  "  The  Green  Door." 

"  I'm  informed  dat  it's  a  fust-rate  show,  sah,"  said 
the  negro.  "  De  agent  what  represents  it  pussented 
me  with  a  dollar,  sah,  to  distribute  a  few  of  his  cards 
along  with  de  doctah's.  May  I  offer  you  one  of  de 
doctah's  cards,  sah?" 

At  the  corner  of  the  block  in  which  he  lived  Rudolf 
stopped  for  a  glass  of  beer  and  a  cigar.  When  he 
had  come  out  with  his  lighted  weed  he  buttoned  his 
coat,  pushed  back  his  hat  and  said,  stoutly,  to  the 
lamp  post  on  the  corner: 

"  All  the  same,  I  believe  it  was  the  hand  of  Fate 
that  doped  out  the  way  for  me  to  find  her." 


164  The  Four  Million 

Which  conclusion,  under  the  circumstances,  cer 
tainly  admits  Rudolf  Steiner  to  the  ranks  of  the 
true  followers  of  Romance  and  Adventure. 


FROM  THE  CABBY'S  SEAT 

iHE  cabby  has  his  point  of  view.  It  is  more 
single-minded,  perhaps,  than  that  of  a  follower  of 
any  other  calling.  From  the  high,  swaying  seat  of 
his  hansom  he  looks  upon  his  fellow-men  as  nomadic 
particles,  of  no  account  except  when  possessed  of 
migratory  desires.  He  is  Jehu,  and  you  are  goods 
in  transit.  Be  you  President  or  vagabond,  to  cabby 
you  are  only  a  Fare.  He  takes  you  up,  cracks  his 
whip,  joggles  your  vertebras  and  sets  you  down. 

When  time  for  payment  arrives,  if  you  exhibit  a 
familiarity  with  legal  rates  you  come  to  know  what 
contempt  is ;  if  you  find  that  you  have  left  your 
pocketbook  behind  you  are  made  to  realise  the  mild 
ness  of  Dante's  imagination. 

It  is  not  an  extravagant  theory  that  the  cabby's 
singleness  of  purpose  and  concentrated  view  of  life 
are  the  results  of  the  hansom's  peculiar  construction. 
The  cock-of-the-roost  sits  aloft  like  Jupiter  on  an 
unsharable  seat,  holding  your  fate  between  two 
thongs  of  inconstant  leather.  Helpless,  ridiculous, 

confined,  bobbing  like  a  toy  mandarin,  you  sit  like 

165 


166  The  Four  Million 

a  rat  in  a  trap  —  you,  before  whom  butlers  cringe 
on  solid  land  —  and  must  squeak  upward  through  a 
slit  in  your  peripatetic  sarcophagus  to  make  your 
feeble  wishes  known. 

Then,  in  a  cab,  you  are  not  even  an  occupant; 
you  are  contents.  You  are  a  cargo  at  sea,  and  the 
"  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft "  has  Davy  Jones's  street 
and  number  by  heart. 

One  night  there  were  sounds  of  revelry  in  the  big 
brick  tenement-house  next  door  but  one  to  McGary's 
Family  Cafe.  The  sounds  seemed  to  emanate  from 
the  apartments  of  the  Walsh  family.  The  sidewalk 
was  obstructed  by  an  assortment  of  interested  neigh 
bours,  who  opened  a  lane  from  time  to  time  for  a 
hurrying  messenger  bearing  from  McGary's  goods 
pertinent  to  festivity  and  diversion.  The  sidewalk 
contingent  was  engaged  in  comment  and  discussion 
from  which  it  made  no  effort  to  eliminate  the  news 
that  Norah  Walsh  was  being  married. 

In  the  fulness  of  time  there  was  an  eruption  of 
the  merry-makers  to  the  sidewalk.  The  uninvited 
guests  enveloped  and  permeated  them,  and  upon  the 
night  air  rose  joyous  cries,  congratulations,  laugh 
ter  and  unclassified  noises  born  of  McGary's  obla 
tions  to  the  hymeneal  scene. 

Close  to  the  curb  stood  Jerry  O'Donovan's  cab. 


From  the  Cabby's  Seat  167 

Night-hawk  was  Jerry  called;  but  no  more  lustrous 
or  cleaner  hansom  than  his  ever  closed  its  doors  upon 
point  lace  and  November  violets.  And  Jerry's  horse ! 
I  am  within  bounds  when  I  tell  you  that  he  was 
stuffed  with  oats  until  one  of  those  old  ladies  who 
leave  their  dishes  unwashed  at  home  and  go  about 
having  expressmen  arrested,  would  have  smiled — > 
yes,  smiled  —  to  have  seen  him. 

Among  the  shifting,  sonorous,  pulsing  crowd 
glimpses  could  be  had  of  Jerry's  high  hat,  battered 
by  the  winds  and  rains  of  many  years;  of  his  nose 
like  a  carrot,  battered  by  the  frolicsome,  athletic 
progeny  of  millionaires  and  by  contumacious  fares; 
of  his  brass-buttoned  green  coat,  admired  in  the  vi 
cinity  of  McGary's.  It  was  plain  that  Jerry  had 
usurped  the  functions  of  his  cab,  and  was  carrying 
a  "  load."  Indeed,  the  figure  may  be  extended  and 
he  be  likened  to  a  bread-waggon  if  we  admit  the  tes 
timony  of  a  youthful  spectator,  who  was  heard  tc 
remark  "  Jerry  has  got  a  bun." 

From  somewhere  among  the  throng  in  the  street 
or  else  out  of  the  thin  stream  of  pedestrians  a  young 
woman  tripped  and  stood  by  the  cab.  The  profes 
sional  hawk's  eye  of  Jerry  caught  the  movement.  He 
made  a  lurch  for  the  cab,  overturning  three  or  four 
onlookers  and  himself  —  no!  he  caught  the  cap  of 


168  The  Four  Million 

a  water-plug  and  kept  his  feet.  Like  a  sailor  shin 
ning  up  the  ratlins  during  a  squall  Jerry  mounted 
to  his  professional  seat.  Once  he  was  there  McGary's 
liquids  were  baffled.  He  seesawed  on  the  mizzenmast 
of  his  craft  as  safe  as  a  Steeple  Jack  rigged  to  the 
flagpole  of  a  skyscraper. 

"  Step  in,  lady,"  said  Jerry,  gathering  his  lines. 

The  young  woman  stepped  into  the  cab ;  the  doors 
shut  with  a  bang;  Jerry's  whip  cracked  in  the  air; 
the  crowd  in  the  gutter  scattered,  and  the  fine  han 
som  dashed  away  'crosstown. 

When  the  oat-spry  horse  had  hedged  a  little  his 
first  spurt  of  speed  Jerry  broke  the  lid  of  his  cab 
and  called  down  through  the  aperture  in  the  voice 
of  a  cracked  megaphone,  trying  to  please: 

"  Where,  now,  will  ye  be  drivin*  to  ?  " 

**  Anywhere  you  please,"  came  up  the  answer,  mu 
sical  and  contented. 

"  'Tis  drivin'  for  pleasure  she  is,"  thought  Jerry. 
!And  then  he  suggested  as  a  matter  of  course: 

"  Take  a  thrip  around  in  the  park,  lady.  'Twill 
be  ilegant  cool  and  fine." 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  answered  the  fare,  pleasantly. 

The  cab  headed  for  Fifth  avenue  and  sped  up  that 
perfect  street.  Jerry  bounced  and  swayed  in  his 
seat.  The  potent  fluids  of  McGary  were  disquieted 


From  the  Cabby's  Seat  169 

and  they  sent  new  fumes  to  his  head.  He  sang  an 
ancient  song  of  Killisnook  and  brandished  his  whip 
like  a  baton. 

Inside  the  cab  the  fare  sat  up  straight  on  the 
cushions,  looking  to  right  and  left  at  the  lights  and 
houses.  Even  in  the  shadowed  hansom  her  eyes  shone 
like  stars  at  twilight. 

When  they  reached  Fifty-ninth  street  Jerry's  head 
was  bobbing  and  his  reins  were  slack.  But  his  horse 
turned  in  through  the  park  gate  and  began  the  old 
familiar  nocturnal  round.  And  then  the  fare  leaned 
back,  entranced,  and  breathed  deep  the  clean,  whole 
some  odours  of  grass  and  leaf  and  bloom.  And  the 
wise  beast  in  the  shafts,  knowing  his  ground,  struck 
into  his  by-the-hour  gait  and  kept  to  the  right  of 
the  road. 

Habit  also  struggled  successfully  against  Jerry's 
increasing  torpor.  He  raised  the  hatch  of  his  storm- 
tossed  vessel  and  made  the  inquiry  that  cabbies  do 
make  in  the  park. 

"  Like  shtop  at  the  Cas-sino,  lady  ?  Gezzer 
r'freshm's,  'n  lish'n  the  music.  Ev'body  shtops." 

"  I  think  that  would  be  nice,"  said  the  fare. 

They  reined  up  with  a  plunge  at  the  Casino  en 
trance.  The  cab  doors  flew  open.  The  fare  stepped 
(directly  upon  the  floor.  At  once  she  was  caught  in  a 


170  The  Four  Million 

web  of  ravishing  music  and  dazzled  by  a  panorama 
of  lights  and  colours.  Some  one  slipped  a  little 
square  card  into  her  hand  on  which  was  printed  a 
number  —  34.  She  looked  around  and  saw  her  cab 
twenty  yards  away  already  lining  up  in  its  place 
among  the  waiting  mass  of  carriages,  cabs  and  motor 
cars.  And  then  a  man  who  seemed  to  be  all  shirt- 
front  danced  backward  before  her;  and  next  she  was 
seated  at  a  little  table  by  a  railing  over  which  climbed 
a  jessamine  vine. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  wordless  invitation  to  pur 
chase;  she  consulted  a  collection  of  small  coins  in  a 
thin  purse,  and  received  from  them  license  to  order 
a  glass  of  beer.  There  she  sat,  inhaling  and  absorb 
ing  it  all  —  the  new-coloured,  new-shaped  life  in  a 
fairy  palace  in  an  enchanted  wood. 

At  fifty  tables  sat  princes  and  queens  clad  in  all 
the  silks  and  gems  of  the  world.  And  now  and  then 
one  of  them  would  look  curiously  at  Jerry's  fare. 
They  saw  a  plain  figure  dressed  in  a  pink  silk  of  the 
kind  that  is  tempered  by  the  word  "  foulard,"  and  a 
plain  face  that  wore  a  look  of  love  of  life  that  the 
queens  envied. 

Twice  the  long  hands  of  the  clocks  went  round. 
Royalties  thinned  from  their  al  fresco  thrones,  and 


From  the  Cabby's  Seat  171 

buzzed  or  clattered  away  in  their  vehicles  of  state. 
The  music  retired  into  cases  of  wood  and  bags  of 
leather  and  baize.  Waiters  removed  cloths  point 
edly  near  the  plain  figure  sitting  almost  alone. 

Jerry's  fare  rose,  and  held  out  her  numbered  card 
simply : 

"Is  there  anything  coming  on  the  ticket?"  she 
asked. 

A  waiter  told  her  it  was  her  cab  check,  and  that 
she  should  give  it  to  the  man  at  the  entrance.  This 
man  took  it,  and  called  the  number.  Only  three 
hansoms  stood  in  line.  The  driver  of  one  of  them 
went  and  routed  out  Jerry  asleep  in  his  cab.  He 
swore  deeply,  climbed  to  the  captain's  bridge  and 
steered  his  craft  to  the  pier.  His  fare  entered,  and 
the  cab  whirled  into  the  cool  fastnesses  of  the  park 
along  the  shortest  homeward  cuts. 

At  the  gate  a  glimmer  of  reason  in  the  form  of 
sudden  suspicion  seized  upon  Jerry's  beclouded  mind. 
One  or  two  things  occurred  to  him.  He  stopped 
his  horse,  raised  the  trap  and  dropped  his  phono 
graphic  voice,  like  a  lead  plummet,  through  the 
aperture : 

"  I  want  to  see  four  dollars  before  goin'  any  fur 
ther  on  th'  thrip.  Have  ye  got  th'  dough?  " 


172  The  Four  Million 

"  Four  dollars ! "  laughed  the  fare,  softly,  "  dear 
me,  no.  I've  only  got  a  few  pennies  and  a  dime 
or  two." 

Jerry  shut  down  the  trap  and  slashed  his  oat-fed 
horse.  The  clatter  of  hoofs  strangled  but  could  not 
drown  the  sound  of  his  profanity.  He  shouted  chok 
ing  and  gurgling  curses  at  the  starry  heavens;  he 
cut  viciously  with  his  whip  at  passing  vehicles;  he 
scattered  fierce  and  ever-changing  oaths  and  impre 
cations  along  the  streets,  so  that  a  late  truck  driver, 
crawling  homeward,  heard  and  was  abashed.  But 
he  knew  his  recourse,  and  made  for  it  at  a  gallop. 

At  the  house  with  the  green  lights  beside  the  steps 
he  pulled  up.  He  flung  wide  the  cab  doors  and  tum 
bled  heavily  to  the  ground. 

"  Come  on,  you,"  he  said,  roughly. 

His  fare  came  forth  with  the  Casino  dreamy  smile 
still  on  her  plain  face.  Jerry  took  her  by  the  arm 
and  led  her  into  the  police  station.  A  gray-mous- 
tached  sergeant  looked  keenly  across  the  desk.  He 
and  the  cabby  were  no  strangers. 

"  Sargeant,"  began  Jerry  in  his  old  raucous,  mar 
tyred,  thunderous  tones  of  complaint.  "  I've  got  a 
fare  here  that — " 

Jerry  paused.     He  drew  a  knotted,  red  hand  across 


From  the  Cabby's  Seat  173 

his  brow.  The  fog  set  up  by  McGary  was  beginning 
to  clear  away. 

"  A  fare,  sargeant,"  he  continued,  with  a  grin, 
"  that  I  want  to  inthroduce  to  ye.  It's  me  wife  that 
I  married  at  ould  man  Walsh's  this  avening.  And  a 
divil  of  a  time  we  had,  'tis  thrue.  Shake  hands  wid 
th'  sargeant,  Norah,  and  we'll  be  off  to  home." 

Before  stepping  into  the  cab  Norah  sighed  pro 
foundly. 

"  I've  had  such  a  nice  tme,  Jerry,"  said  she. 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

WE  no  longer  groan  and  heap  ashes  upon  our 
heads  when  the  flames  of  Tophet  are  mentioned. 
For,  even  the  preachers  have  begun  to  tell  us  that 
God  is  radium,  or  ether  or  some  scientific  compound, 
and  that  the  worst  we  wicked  ones  may  expect  is 
a  chemical  reaction.  This  is  a  pleasing  hypothesis; 
but  there  lingers  yet  some  of  the  old,  goodly  terror 
of  orthodoxy. 

There  are  but  two  subjects  upon  which  one  may 
discourse  with  a  free  imagination,  and  without  the 
possibility  of  being  controverted.  You  may  talk 
of  your  dreams;  and  you  may  tell  what  you  heard 
a  parrot  say.  Both  Morpheus  and  the  bird  are  in 
competent  witnesses;  and  your  listener  dare  not  at 
tack  your  recital.  The  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision, 
then,  shall  furnish  my  theme  —  chosen  with  apologies 
and  regrets  instead  of  the  more  limited  field  of 
pretty  Polly's  small  talk. 

I  had  a  dream  that  was  so  far  removed  from  the 
higher  criticism  that  it  had  to  do  with  the  ancient, 

respectable,   and  lamented   bar-of- judgment  theory. 

174 


An  Unfinished  Story  175 

Gabriel  had  played  his  trump;  and  those  of  us 
who  could  not  follow  suit  were  arraigned  for  exam 
ination.  I  noticed  at  one  side  a  gathering  of  profes 
sional  bondsmen  in  solemn  black  and  collars  that 
buttoned  behind ;  but  it  seemed  there  was  some  trou 
ble  about  their  real  estate  titles;  and  they  did  not 
appear  to  be  getting  any  of  us  out. 

A  fly  cop  —  an  angel  policeman  —  flew  over  to  me 
and  took  me  by  the  left  wing.  Near  at  hand  was 
a  group  of  very  prosperous-looking  spirits  arraigned 
for  judgment. 

"  Do  you  belong  with  that  bunch  ?  "  the  policeman 
asked. 

"Who  are  they?"  was  my  answer. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "they  are—" 

But  this  irrelevant  stuff  is  taking  up  space  that 
the  story  should  occupy. 

Dulcie  worked  in  a  department  store.  She  sold 
Hamburg  edging,  or  stuffed  peppers,  or  automobiles, 
or  other  little  trinkets  such  as  they  keep  in  depart 
ment  stores.  Of  what  she  earned,  Dulcie  received  six 
dollars  per  week.  The  remainder  was  credited  to 
her  and  debited  to  somebody  else's  account  in  the 

ledger  kept  by  G Oh,  primal  energy,  you  say, 

Reverend  Doctor  —  Well  then,  in  the  Ledger  of  Pri' 
mal  Energy. 


176  The  Four  Million 

During  her  first  year  in  the  store,  Dulcie  was  paid 
five  dollars  per  week.  It  would  be  instructive  to 
know  how  she  lived  on  that  amount.  Don't  care? 
Very  well;  probably  you  are  interested  in  larger 
amounts.  Six  dolkrs  is  a  larger  amount.  I  wiH  tell 
you  how  she  lived  on  six  dollars  per  week. 

One  afternoon  at  six,  when  Dulcie  was  sticking  her 
hat-pin  within  an  eighth  of  an  inch  of  her  medulla 
oblongata,  she  said  to  her  chum,  Sadie  —  the  girl 
that  waits  on  you  with  her  left  side: 

"  Say,  Sade,  I  made  a  date  for  dinner  this  evening 
with  Piggy." 

"  You  never  did ! "  exclaimed  Sadie  admiringly. 
"  Well,  ain't  you  the  lucky  one  ?  Piggy's  an  awful 
swell ;  and  he  always  takes  a  girl  to  swell  places.  He 
took  Blanche  up  to  the  Hoffman  House  one  evening, 
where  they  have  swell  music,  and  you  see  a  lot  of 
swells.  You'll  have  a  swell  time,  Dulce." 

Dulcie  hurried  homeward.  Her  eyes  were  shining, 
and  her  cheeks  showed  the  delicate  pink  of  life's  — 
real  life's  —  approaching  dawn.  It  was  Friday; 
and  she  had  fifty  cents  left  of  her  last  week's  wages. 

The  streets  were  filled  with  the  rush-hour  floods  of 
people.  The  electric  lights  of  Broadway  were  glow 
ing  • —  calling  moths  from  miles,  from  leagues,  from 
hundreds  of  leagues  out  of  darkness  around  to  come 


An  Unfinished  Story  177 

in  and  attend  the  singeing  school.  Men  in  accurate 
clothes,  with  faces  like  those  carved  on  cherry  stones 
by  the  old  salts  in  sailors'  homes,  turned  and  stared 
at  Dulcie  as  she  sped,  unheeding,  past  them.  Man 
hattan,  the  night-blooming  cereus,  was  beginning  to 
unfold  its  dead-white,  heavy-odoured  petals. 

Dulcie  stopped  in  a  store  where  goods  were  cheap 
and  bought  an  imitation  lace  collar  with  her  fifty 
cents.  That  money  was  to  have  been  spent  other 
wise —  fifteen  cents  for  supper,  ten  cents  for  break 
fast,  ten  cents  for  lunch.  Another  dime  was  to  be 
added  to  her  small  store  of  savings;  and  five  cents 
was  to  be  squandered  for  licorice  drops  —  the  kind 
that  made  your  cheek  look  like  the  toothache,  and 
last  as  long.  The  licorice  was  an  extravagance  — 
almost  a  carouse  —  but  what  is  life  without  pleas 
ures  ? 

Dulcie  lived  in  a  furnished  room.  There  is  this 
difference  between  a  furnished  room  and  a  boarding- 
house.  In  a  furnished  room,  other  people  do  not 
know  it  when  you  go  hungry. 

Dulcie  went  up  to  her  room  —  the  third  floor  back 
in  a  West  Side  brownstone-front.  She  lit  the  gas. 
Scientists  tell  us  that  the  diamond  is  the  hardest  sub 
stance  known.  Their  mistake.  Landladies  know  of 
a  compound  beside  which  the  diamond  is  as  putty. 


178  The  Four  Million 

They  pack  it  in  the  tips  of  gas-burners ;  and  one  may 
stand  on  a  chair  and  dig  at  it  in  vain  until  one's 
fingers  are  pink  and  bruised.  A  hairpin  will  not 
remove  it;  therefore  let  us  call  it  immovable. 

So  Dulcie  lit  the  gas.  In  its  one-fourth-candle- 
power  glow  we  will  observe  the  room. 

Couch-bed,  dresser,  table,  washstand,  chair  —  of 
this  much  the  landlady  was  guilty.  The  rest  was 
Dulcie's.  On  the  dresser  were  her  treasures  —  a  gilt 
china  vase  presented  to  her  by  Sadie,  a  calendar 
issued  by  a  pickle  works,  a  book  on  the  divination 
of  dreams,  some  rice  powder  in  a  glass  dish,  and 
a  cluster  of  artificial  cherries  tied  with  a  pink  rib 
bon. 

Against  the  wrinkly  mirror  stood  pictures  of  Gen 
eral  Kitchener,  William  Muldoon,  the  Duchess  of 
Marlborough,  and  Benvenuto  Cellini.  Against  one 
wall  was  a  plaster  of  Paris  plaque  of  an  O'Callahan 
in  a  Roman  helmet.  Near  it  was  a  violent  oleograph 
of  a  lemon-coloured  child  assaulting  an  inflammatory 
butterfly.  This  was  Dulcie's  final  judgment  in  art; 
but  it  had  never  been  upset.  Her  rest  had  never 
been  disturbed  by  whispers  of  stolen  copes;  no  critic 
had  elevated  his  eyebrows  at  her  infantile  entomol 
ogist. 

Piggy  was  to  call  for  her  at  seven.     While  she 


TAn  Unfinished  Story  179 

swiftly  makes  ready,  let  us  discreetly  face  the  other 
way  and  gossip. 

For  the  room,  Dulcie  paid  two  dollars  per  week. 
On  week-days  her  breakfast  cost  ten  cents ;  she  made 
coffee  and  cooked  an  egg  over  the  gaslight  while  she 
was  dressing.  On  Sunday  mornings  she  feasted  roy 
ally  on  veal  chops  and  pineapple  fritters  at 
"  Billy's  "  restaurant,  at  a  cost  of  twenty-five  cents 

—  and  tipped   the  waitress   ten   cents.     New   York 
presents  so  many  temptations  for  one  to  run  into 
extravagance.     She  had  her  lunches  in  the  depart 
ment-store  restaurant  at  a  cost  of  sixty  cents  for  the 
week;  dinners  were  $1.05.     The  evening  papers  — 
show  me  a  New  Yorker  going  without  his  daily  paper ! 

—  came  to  six  cents ;  and  two  Sunday  papers  —  one 
for  the  personal  column   and  the  other  to  read  — 
were  ten  cents.     The  total  amounts  to  $4.76.     Now, 
one  has  to  buy  clothes,  and  — 

I  give  it  up.  I  hear  of  wonderful  bargains  in 
fabrics,  and  of  miracles  performed  with  needle  and 
thread ;  but  I  am  in  doubt.  I  hold  my  pen  poised 
in  vain  when  I  would  add  to  Dulcie's  life  some  of 
those  joys  that  belong  to  woman  by  virtue  of  all  the 
unwritten,  sacred,  natural,  inactive  ordinances  of  the 
equity  of  heaven.  Twice  she  had  been  to  Coney  Is 
land  and  had  ridden  the  hobby-horses.  'Tis  a  weary 


180  The  Four  Million 

thing  to  count  your  pleasures  by  summers  instead 
of  by  hours. 

Piggy  needs  but  a  word.  When  the  girls  named 
him,  an  undeserving  stigma  was  cast  upon  the  noble 
family  of  swine.  The  words-of-three-letters  lesson  in 
the  old  blue  spelling  book  begins  with  Piggy's  biog 
raphy.  He  was  fat;  he  had  the  soul  of  a  rat,  the 
habits  of  a  bat,  and  the  magnanimity  of  a  cat.  .  .  . 
He  wore  expensive  clothes ;  and  was  a  connoisseur  in 
starvation.  He  could  look  at  a  shop-girl  and  tell 
you  to  an  hour  how  long  it  had  been  since  she  had 
eaten  anything  more  nourishing  than  marshmallows 
and  tea.  He  hung  about  the  shopping  districts,  and 
prowled  around  in  department  stores  with  his  invi 
tations  to  dinner.  Men  who  escort  dogs  upon  the 
streets  at  the  end  of  a  string  look  down  upon  him. 
He  is  a  type;  I  can  dwell  upon  him  no  longer;  my 
pen  is  not  the  kind  intended  for  him;  I  am  no  car 
penter. 

At  ten  minutes  to  seven  Dulcie  was  ready.  She 
looked  at  herself  in  the  wrinkly  mirror.  The  reflec 
tion  was  satisfactory.  The  dark  blue  dress,  fitting 
without  a  wrinkle,  the  hat  with  its  jaunty  black 
feather,  the  but-slightly-soiled  gloves  —  all  repre 
senting  self-denial,  even  of  food  itself  —  were  vastly 
becoming. 


An  Unfinished  Story  181 

Dulcie  forgot  everything  else  for  a  moment  ex 
cept  that  she  was  beautiful,  and  that  life  was  about 
to  lift  a  corner  of  its  mysterious  veil  for  her  to  ob 
serve  its  wonders.  No  gentleman  had  ever  asked  her 
out  before.  Now  she  was  going  for  a  brief  moment 
into  the  glitter  and  exalted  show. 

The  girls  said  that  Piggy  was  a  "  spender." 
There  would  be  a  grand  dinner,  and  music,  and 
splendidly  dressed  ladies  to  look  at,  and  things  to  eat 
that  strangely  twisted  the  girls'  jaws  when  they  tried 
to  tell  about  them.  No  doubt  she  would  be  asked  out 
again. 

There  was  a  blue  pongee  suit  in  a  window  that 
she  knew  —  by  saving  twenty  cents  a  week  instead 
of  ten,  in  —  let's  see  —  Oh,  it  would  run  into  years ! 
But  there  was  a  second-hand  store  in  Seventh  Avenue 
where  — 

Somebody  knocked  at  the  door.  Dulcie  opened  it. 
The  landlady  stood  there  with  a  spurious  smile,  sniff 
ing  for  cooking  by  stolen  gas. 

"  A  gentleman's  downstairs  to  see  you,"  she  said. 
"  Name  is  Mr.  Wiggins." 

By  such  epithet  was  Piggy  known  to  unfortunate 
ones  who  had  to  take  him  seriously. 

Dulcie  turned  to  the  dresser  to  get  her  handker 
chief;  and  then  she  stopped  still,  and  bit  her  under- 


182  The  Four  Million 

lip  Hard.  While  looking  in  her  mirror  she  had  seen 
fairyland  and  herself,  a  princess,  just  awakening 
from  a  long  slumber.  She  had  forgotten  one  that 
was  watching  her  with  sad,  beautiful,  stern  eyes  — 
the  only  one  there  was  to  approve  or  condemn  what 
she  did.  Straight  and  slender  and  tall,  with  a  look 
of  sorrowful  reproach  on  his  handsome,  melancholy 
face,  General  Kitchener  fixed  his  wonderful  eyes  on 
her  out  of  his  gilt  photograph  frame  on  the  dressen 

Dulcie  turned  like  an  automatic  doll  to  the  land* 
lady. 

"  Tell  him  I  can't  go,"  she  said  dully.  "  Tell  him 
I'm  sick,  or  something.  Tell  him  I'm  not  going 
out." 

After  the  door  was  closed  and  locked,  Dulcie  fell 
upon  her  bed,  crushing  her  black  tip,  and  cried  for 
ten  minutes.  General  Kitchener  was  her  only  friend. 
He  was  Dulcie's  ideal  of  a  gallant  knight.  He 
looked  as  if  he  might  have  a  secret  sorrow,  and  his 
wonderful  moustache  was  a  dream,  and  she  was  a 
little  afraid  of  that  stern  yet  tender  look  in  his  eyes. 
She  used  to  have  little  fancies  that  he  would  call  at 
the  house  sometime,  and  ask  for  her,  with  his  sword 
clanking  against  his  high  boots.  Once,  when  a  boy 
was  rattling  a  piece  of  chain  against  a  lamp-post  she 


An  Unfinished  Story  183 

had  opened  the  window  and  looked  out.  But  there 
was  no  use.  She  knew  that  General  Kitchener  was 
away  over  in  Japan,  leading  his  army  against  the 
savage  Turks;  and  he  would  never  step  out  of  his 
gilt  frame  for  her.  Yet  one  look  from  him  had  van 
quished  Piggy  that  night.  Yes,  for  that  night. 

When  her  cry  was  over  Dulcie  got  up  and  took 
off  her  best  dress,  and  put  on  her  old  blue  kimono. 
She  wanted  no  dinner.  She  sang  two  verses  of 
"  Sammy."  Then  she  became  intensely  interested  in 
a  little  red  speck  on  the  side  of  her  nose.  And  after 
that  was  attended  to,  she  drew  up  a  chair  to  the 
rickety  table,  and  told  her  fortune  with  an  old  deck 
of  cards. 

"  The  horrid,  impudent  thing ! "  she  said  aloud. 
**  And  I  never  gave  him  a  word  or  a  look  to  make 
him  think  it !  " 

At  nine  o'clock  Dulcie  took  a  tin  box  of  crackers 
and  a  little  pot  of  raspberry  jam  out  of  her  trunk, 
and  had  a  feast.  She  offered  General  Kitchener 
some  jam  on  a  cracker;  but  he  only  looked  at  her  as 
the  sphinx  would  have  looked  at  a  butterfly  —  if 
there  are  butterflies  in  the  desert. 

"  Don't  eat  it  if  you  don't  want  to,"  said  Dulcie. 
"  And  don't  put  on  so  many  airs  and  scold  so  with 


184  The  Four  Million 

your  eyes.  I  wonder  if  you'd  be  so  superior  and 
snippy  if  you  had  to  live  on  six  dollars  a  week." 

It  was  not  a  good  sign  for  Dulcie  to  be  rude  to 
General  Kitchener.  And  then  she  turned  Benvenuto 
Cellini  face  downward  with  a  severe  gesture.  But 
that  was  not  inexcusable ;  for  she  had  always  thought 
he  was  Henry  VIII,  and  she  did  not  approve  of 
him. 

At  half-past  nine  Dulcie  took  a  last  look  at  the 
pictures  on  the  dresser,  turned  out  the  light,  and 
skipped  into  bed.  It's  an  awful  thing  to  go  to  bed 
with  a  good-night  look  at  General  Kitchener,  William 
Muldoon,  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  and  Ben 
venuto  Cellini. 

This  story  really  doesn't  get  anywhere  at  all.  The 
rest  of  it  comes  later  —  sometime  when  Piggy  asks 
Dulcie  again  to  dine  with  him,  and  she  is  feeling 
lonelier  than  usual,  and  General  Kitchener  happens 
to  be  looking  the  other  way ;  and  then  — 

As  I  said  before,  I  dreamed  that  I  was  standing 
near  a  crowd  of  prosperous-looking  angels,  and  a 
policeman  took  me  by  the  wing  and  asked  if  I  be 
longed  with  them. 

"Who  are  they?"  I  asked. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  they  are  the  men  who  hired 


rAn  Unfinished  Story  185 

working-girls,  and  paid  'em  five  or  six  dollars  a  week 
to  live  on.     Are  you  one  of  the  bunch  ?  " 

"  Not  on  your  immortality,"  said  I.  "  I'm  only 
the  fellow  that  set  fire  to  an  orphan  asylum,  and 
murdered  a  blind  man  for  his  pennies*" 


THE  CALIPH,  CUPID  AND  THE  CLOCK 

PRINCE  MICHAEL,  of  the  Electorate  of  Val- 
leluna,  sat  on  his  favourite  bench  in  the  park.  The 
coolness  of  the  September  night  quickened  the  life 
in  him  like  a  rare,  tonic  wine.  The  benches  were 
not  filled;  for  nark  loungers,  with  their  stagnant 
blood,  are  prompt  to  detect  and  fly  home  from  the 
crispness  of  early  autumn.  The  moon  was  just  clear 
ing  the  roofs  of  the  range  of  dwellings  that  bounded 
the  quadrangle  on  the  east.  Children  laughed  and 
played  about  the  fine-sprayed  fountain.  In  the 
shadowed  spots  fauns  and  hamadryads  wooed,  un 
conscious  of  the  gaze  of  mortal  eyes.  A  hand  organ 
—  Philomel  by  the  grace  of  our  stage  carpenter, 
Fancy  —  fluted  and  droned  in  a  side  street.  Around 
the  enchanted  boundaries  of  the  little  park  street 
cars  spat  and  mewed  and  the  stilted  trains  roared 
like  tigers  and  lions  prowling  for  a  place  to  enter. 
And  above  the  trees  shone  the  great,  round,  shining 
face  of  an  illuminated  clock  in  the  tower  of  an  an 
tique  public  building. 

Prince  Michael's  shoes  were  wrecked  far  beyond 
186 


The  Caliph,  Cupid  and  the  Clock     187 

the  skill  of  the  carefullest  cobbler.  The  ragman 
would  have  declined  any  negotiations  concerning  his 
clothes.  The  two  weeks'  stubble  on  his  face  was 
grey  and  brown  and  red  and  greenish  yellow  —  as  if 
it  had  been  made  up  from  individual  contributions 
from  the  chorus  of  a  musical  comedy.  No  man  ex 
isted  who  had  money  enough  to  wear  so  bad  a  hat 
as  his. 

Prince  Michael  sat  on  his  favourite  bench  and 
smiled.  It  was  a  diverting  thought  to  him  that  he 
was  wealthy  enough  to  buy  every  one  of  those  close- 
ranged,  bulky,  window-lit  mansions  that  faced  him, 
if  he  chose.  He  could  have  matched  gold,  equipages, 
jewels,  art  treasures,  estates  and  acres  with  any 
Croesus  in  this  proud  city  of  Manhattan,  and  scarcely 
have  entered  upon  the  bulk  of  his  holdings.  He 
could  have  sat  at  table  with  reigning  sovereigns. 
The  social  world,  the  world  of  art,  the  fellowship 
of  the  elect,  adulation,  imitation,  the  homage  of  the 
fairest,  honours  from  the  highest,  praise  from  the 
wisest,  flattery,  esteem,  credit,  pleasure,  fame  —  all 
the  honey  of  life  was  waiting  in  the  comb  in  the  hive 
of  the  world  for  Prince  Michael,  of  the  Electorate 
of  Valleluna,  whenever  he  might  choose  to  take  it. 
But  his  choice  was  to  sit  in  rags  and  dinginess  on  a 
bench  in  a  park.  For  he  had  tasted  of  the  fruit  of 


188  The  Four  Million 

the  tree  of  life,  and,  finding  it  bitter  in  his  mouth, 
had  stepped  out  of  Eden  for  a  time  to  seek  distrac 
tion  close  to  the  unarmoured,  beating  heart  of  the 
world. 

These  thoughts  strayed  dreamily  through  the  mind 
of  Prince  Michael,  as  he  smiled  under  the  stubble 
of  his  polychromatic  beard.  Lounging  thus,  clad  as 
the  poorest  of  mendicants  in  the  parks,  he  loved  to 
study  humanity.  He  found  in  altruism  more  pleas 
ure  than  his  riches,  his  station  and  all  the  grosser 
sweets  of  life  had  given  him.  It  was  his  chief  solace 
and  satisfaction  to  alleviate  individual  distress,  to 
confer  favours  upon  worthy  ones  who  had  need  of 
succour,  to  dazzle  unfortunates  by  unexpected  and 
bewildering  gifts  of  truly  royal  magnificence,  be 
stowed,  however,  with  wisdom  and  judiciousness. 

And  as  Prince  Michael's  eye  rested  upon  the  glow 
ing  face  of  the  great  clock  in  the  tower,  his  smile, 
altruistic  as  it  was,  became  slightly  tinged  with  con 
tempt.  Big  thoughts  were  the  Prince's;  and  it  was 
always  with  a  shake  of  his  head  that  he  considered 
the  subjugation  of  the  world  to  the  arbitrary  meas 
ures  of  Time.  The  comings  and  goings  of  people 
in  hurry  and  dread,  controlled  by  the  little  metal 
moving  hands  of  a  clock,  always  made  him  sad. 

By  and  by  came  a  young  man  in  evening  clothes 


The  Caliph,  Cupid  and  the  Clock    18Q 

and  sat  upon  the  third  bench  from  the  Prince.  Foif 
half  an  hour  he  smoked  cigars  with  nervous  haste, 
and  then  he  fell  to  watching  the  face  of  the  illumi 
nated  clock  above  the  trees.  His  perturbation  was 
evident,  and  the  Prince  noted,  in  sorrow,  that  its 
cause  was  connected,  in  some  manner,  with  the  slowljr 
moving  hands  of  the  timepiece. 

His  Highness  arose  and  went  to  the  young  man's 
bench. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  addressing  you,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  perceive  that  you  are  disturbed  in  mind.  If 
it  may  serve  to  mitigate  the  liberty  I  have  taken 
I  will  add  that  I  am  Prince  Michael,  heir  to  the 
throne  of  the  Electorate  of  Valleluna.  I  appear  in 
cognito,  of  course,  as  you  may  gather  from  my  ap 
pearance.  It  is  a  fancy  of  mine  to  render  aid  to 
others  whom  I  think  worthy  of  it.  Perhaps  the  mat 
ter  that  seems  to  distress  you  is  one  that  would  more 
readily  yield  to  our  mutual  efforts." 

The  young  man  looked  up  brightly  at  the  Prince. 
Brightly,  but  the  perpendicular  line  of  perplexity 
between  his  brows  was  not  smoothed  away.  He 
laughed,  and  even  then  it  did  not.  But  he  accepted 
the  momentary  diversion. 

"  Glad  to  meet  you,  Prince,"  he  said,  good  hut- 
mouredly.  "  Yes,  I'd  say  you  were  incog,  all  right. 


190  The  Four  Million 

Thanks  for  your  offer  of  assistance  —  but  I  don't 
see  where  your  butting-in  would  help  things  any. 
It's  a  kind  of  private  affair,  you  know  —  but  thanks 
all  the  same." 

Prince  Michael  sat  at  the  young  man's  side.  He 
was  often  rebuffed  but  never  offensively.  His  cour 
teous  manner  and  words  forbade  that. 

"  Clocks,"  said  the  Prince,  <£  are  shackles  on  the 
feet  of  mankind.  I  have  observed  you  looking  per 
sistently  at  that  clock.  Its  face  is  that  of  a  tyrant, 
its  numbers  are  false  as  those  on  a  lottery  ticket; 
its  hands  are  those  of  a  bunco  steerer,  who  makes  an 
appointment  with  you  to  your  ruin.  Let  me  entreat 
you  to  throw  off  its  humiliating  bonds  and  to  cease 
to  order  your  affairs  by  that  insensate  monitor  of 
brass  and  steel." 

"  I  don't  usually,"  said  the  young  man.  "  I  carry 
a  watch  except  when  I've  got  my  radiant  rags  on." 

"  I  know  human  nature  as  I  do  the  trees  and 
grass,"  said  the  Prince,  with  earnest  dignity.  "  I 
am  a  master  of  philosophy,  a  graduate  in  art,  and  I 
hold  the  purse  of  a  Fortunatus.  There  are  few 
mortal  misfortunes  that  I  cannot  alleviate  or  over 
come.  I  have  read  your  countenance,  and  found  in 
it  honesty  and  nobility  as  well  as  distress.  I  beg 
of  you  to  accept  my  advice  or  aid.  Do  not  belie 


The  Caliph,  Cupid  and  the  Clock    191 

the  intelligence  I  see  in  your  face  by  judging  from 
my  appearance  of  my  ability  to  defeat  your  trou 
bles." 

The  young  man  glanced  at  the  clock  again  and 
frowned  darkly.  When  his  gaze  strayed  from  the 
glowing  horologue  of  time  it  rested  intently  upon 
a  four-story  red  brick  house  in  the  row  of  dwellings 
opposite  to  where  he  sat.  The  shades  were  drawn, 
and  the  lights  in  many  rooms  shone  dimly  through 
them. 

"  Ten  minutes  to  nine ! "  exclaimed  the  young 
man,  with  an  impatient  gesture  of  despair.  He 
turned  his  back  upon  the  house  and  took  a  rapid 
step  or  two  in  a  contrary  direction. 

"  Remain ! "  commanded  Prince  Michael,  in  so  po 
tent  a  voice  that  the  disturbed  one  wheeled  around 
with  a  somewhat  chagrined  laugh. 

"  I'll  give  her  the  ten  minutes  and  then  I'm  off," 
he  muttered,  and  then  aloud  to  the  Prince :  "  I'll 
join  you  in  confounding  all  clocks,  my  friend,  and 
throw  in  women,  too." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  the  Prince  calmly.  "  I  do  not 
accept  your  addition.  Women  are  the  natural  ene 
mies  of  clocks,  and,  therefore,  the  allies  of  those  who 
would  seek  liberation  from  these  monsters  that  meas 
ure  our  follies  and  limit  our  pleasures.  If  you  wil] 


192  The  Four  Million 

so  far  confide  in  me  I  would  ask  you  to  relate  to  me 
jour  story." 

The  young  man  threw  himself  upon  the  bench  with 
a  reckless  laugh. 

"  Your  Royal  Highness,  I  will,"  he  said,  in  tones 
of  mock  deference.  "  Do  you  see  yonder  house  — • 
the  one  with  three  upper  windows  lighted?  Well,  at 
6  o'clock  I  stood  in  that  house  with  the  young  lady 
I  am  —  that  is,  I  was  —  engaged  to.  I  had  been 
idoing  wrong,  my  dear  Prince  —  I  had  been  a  naughty 
boy,  and  she  had  heard  of  it.  I  wanted  to  be  for 
given,  of  course  —  we  are  always  wanting  women  to 
forgive  us,  aren't  we,  Prince?  " 

"  '  I  want  time  to  think  it  over,'  said  she.  '  There 
is  one  thing  certain;  I  will  either  fully  forgive  you, 
or  I  will  never  see  your  face  again.  There  will  be 
no  half-way  business.  At  half-past  eight,'  she  said, 
*  at  exactly  half-past  eight  you  may  be  watching  the 
middle  upper  window  of  the  top  floor.  If  I  decide 
to  forgive  I  will  hang  out  of  that  window  a  white 
silk  scarf.  You  will  know  by  that  that  all  is  as  was 
before,  and  you  may  come  to  me.  If  you  see  no 
scarf  you  may  consider  that  everything  between  us 
is  ended  forever.'  That,"  concluded  the  young  man 
bitterly,  "  is  why  I  have  been  watching  that  clock. 
The  time  for  the  signal  to  appear  has  passed  twenty- 


The  Caliph,  Cupid  and  the  Clock    198 

three  minutes  ago.  Do  you  wonder  that  I  am  a  little 
disturbed,  my  Prince  of  Rags  and  Whiskers  ?  " 

"  Let  me  repeat  to  you,"  said  Prince  Michael,  in 
his  even,  well-modulated  tones,  "  that  women  are  the 
natural  enemies  of  clocks.  Clocks  are  an  evil,  women 
a  blessing.  The  signal  may  yet  appear." 

"  Never,  on  your  principality ! "  exclaimed  the 
young  man,  hopelessly.  "  You  don't  know  Marian 
—  of  course.  She's  always  on  time,  to  the  minute. 
That  was  the  first  thing  about  her  that  attracted  me. 
I've  got  the  mitten  instead  of  the  scarf.  I  ought  to 
have  known  at  8.31  that  my  goose  was  cooked.  I'll 
go  West  on  the  11.45  to-night  with  Jack  Milburn. 
The  jig's  up.  I'll  try  Jack's  ranch  awhile  and  top 
off  with  the  Klondike  and  whiskey.  Good-night  — 
er  —  er  —  Prince." 

Prince  Michael  smiled  his  enigmatic,  gentle,  com 
prehending  smile  and  caught  the  coat  sleeve  of  the 
other.  The  brilliant  light  in  the  Prince's  eyes  was 
softening  to  a  dreamier,  cloudy  translucence. 

"  Wait,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  till  the  clock  strikes. 
"  I  have  wealth  and  power  and  knowledge  above 
most  men,  but  when  the  clock  strikes  I  am  afraid. 
Stay  by  me  until  then.  This  woman  shall  be  yours. 
You  have  the  word  of  the  hereditary  Prince  of  Valle- 
luna.  On  the  day  of  your  marriage  I  will  give  you 


194  The  Four  Million 

$100,000  and  a  palace  on  the  Hudson.  But  there 
must  be  no  clocks  in  that  palace  —  they  measure  our 
follies  and  limit  our  pleasures.  Do  you  agree  to 
that?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  young  man,  cheerfully, 
"  they're  a  nuisance,  anyway  —  always  ticking  and 
striking  and  getting  you  late  for  dinner." 

He  glanced  again  at  the  clock  in  the  tower.  The 
hands  stood  at  three  minutes  to  nine. 

u  I  think,"  said  Prince  Michael,  "  that  I  will  sleep 
a  little.  The  day  has  been  fatiguing." 

He  stretched  himself  upon  a  bench  with  the  man 
ner  of  one  who  had  slept  thus  before. 

"  You  will  find  me  in  this  park  on  any  erening 
when  the  weather  is  suitable,"  said  the  Prince,  sleep 
ily.  "  Come  to  me  when  your  marriage  day  is  set 
and  I  will  give  you  a  cheque  for  the  money." 

"  Thanks,  Your  Highness,"  said  the  young  man, 
seriously.  "  It  doesn't  look  as  if  I  would  need  that 
palace  on  the  Hudson,  but  I  appreciate  your  offer, 
just  the  same." 

Prince  Michael  sank  into  deep  slumber.  His  bat 
tered  hat  rolled  from  the  bench  to  the  ground.  The 
young  man  lifted  it,  placed  it  over  the  frowsy  face 
and  moved  one  of  the  grotesquely  relaxed  limbs  into 


The  Caliph  j  Cupid  and  the  Clock    195 

a  more  comfortable  position.  "  Poor  devil !  "  he  said, 
as  he  drew  the  tattered  clothes  closer  about  the 
Prince's  breast. 

Sonorous  and  startling  came  the  stroke  of  9  from 
the  clock  tower.  The  young  man  sighed  again, 
turned  his  face  for  one  last  look  at  the  house  of  his 
relinquished  hopes  —  and  cried  aloud  profane  words 
of  holy  rapture. 

From  the  middle  upper  window  blossomed  in  the 
dusk  a  waving,  snowy,  fluttering,  wonderful,  divine 
emblem  of  forgiveness  and  promised  joy. 

By  came  a  citizen,  rotund,  comfortable,  home- 
hurrying,  unknowing  of  the  delights  of  waving  silken 
scarfs  on  the  borders  of  dimly-lit  parks. 

"Will  you  oblige  me  with  the  time,  sir?"  asked 
the  young  man;  and  the  citizen,  shrewdly  conjectur 
ing  his  watch  to  be  safe,  dragged  it  out  and  an 
nounced  : 

"  Twenty-nine  and  a  half  minutes  past  eight,  sir." 
And  then,  from  habit,  he  glanced  at  the  clock  in 
the  tower,  and  made  further  oration. 

"  By  George !  that  clock's  half  an  hour  fast !  First 
time  in  ten  years  I've  known  it  to  be  off.  This  watch 
of  mine  never  varies  a  — " 

But  the  citizen  was  talking  to  vacancy.     He  turned 


196  The  Four  Million 

and  saw  his  hearer,  a  fast  receding  black  shadow, 
flying  in  the  direction  of  a  house  with  three  lighted 
upper  windows. 

And  in  the  morning  came  along  two  policemen  on 
their  way  to  the  beats  they  owned.  The  park  was 
deserted  save  for  one  dilapidated  figure  that 
sprawled,  asleep,  on  a  bench.  They  stopped  and 
gazed  upon  it. 

"  It's  Dopy  Mike,"  said  one.  "  He  hits  the  pipe 
every  night.  Park  bum  for  twenty  years.  On  his 
last  legs,  I  guess." 

The  other  policeman  stooped  and  looked  at  some 
thing  crumpled  and  crisp  in  the  hand  of  the  sleeper. 

"  Gee !  "  he  remarked.  '*  He's  doped  out  a  fifty- 
dollar  bill,  anyway.  Wish  I  knew  the  brand  of  hop 
that  he  smokes." 

And  then  "  Rap,  rap,  rap !  "  went  the  club  of  real 
ism  against  the  shoe  soles  of  Prince  Michael,  of  the 
Electorate  of  Valleluna. 


SISTERS  OF  THE  GOLDEN  CIRCLE 

1HE  Rubberneck  Auto  was  about  ready  to  start. 
The  merry  top-riders  had  been  assigned  to  their 
seats  by  the  gentlemanly  conductor.  The  sidewalk 
was  blockaded  with  sightseers  who  had  gathered  to 
stare  at  sightseers,  justifying  the  natural  law  that 
every  creature  on  earth  is  preyed  upon  by  some  other 
creature. 

The  megaphone  man  raised  his  instrument  of  tor 
ture;  the  inside  of  the  great  automobile  began  to 
thump  and  throb  like  the  heart  of  a  coffee  drinker. 
The  top-riders  nervously  clung  to  the  seats;  the  old 
lady  from  Valparaiso,  Indiana,  shrieked  to  be  put 
ashore.  But,  before  a  wheel  turns,  listen  to  a  brief 
preamble  through  the  cardiaphone,  which  shall  point 
out  to  you  an  object  of  interest  on  life's  sightseeing 
tour. 

Swift  and  comprehensive  is  the  recognition  of 
white  man  for  white  man  in  African  wilds ;  instant 
and  sure  is  the  spiritual  greeting  between  mother 
and  babe;  unhesitatingly  do  master  and  dog  com 
mune  across  the  slight  gulf  between  animal  and  man ; 

197 


198  The  Four  Million 

immeasurably  quick  and  sapient  are  the  brief  mes 
sages  between  one  and  one's  beloved.  But  all  these 
instances  set  forth  only  slow  and  groping  interchange 
of  sympathy  and  thought  beside  one  other  instance 
which  the  Rubberneck  coach  shall  disclose.  You 
shall  learn  (if  you  have  not  learned  already)  what 
two  beings  of  all  earth's  living  inhabitants  most 
quickly  look  into  each  other's  hearts  and  souls  when 
they  meet  face  to  face. 

The  gong  whirred,  and  the  Glaring-at-Gotham  car 
moved  majestically  upon  its  instructive  tour. 

On  the  highest,  rear  seat  was  James  Williams,  of 
Cloverdale,  Missouri,  and  his  Bride. 

Capitalise  it,  friend  typo  —  that  last  word  — 
word  of  words  in  the  epiphany  of  life  and  love. 
The  scent  of  the  flowers,  the  booty  of  the  bee,  the 
primal  drip  of  spring  waters,  the  overture  of  the  lark, 
the  twist  of  lemon  peel  on  the  cocktail  of  creation 
• —  such  is  the  bride.  Holy  is  the  wife ;  revered  the 
mother ;  galliptious  is  the  summer  girl  —  but  the 
bride  is  the  certified  check  among  the  wedding  pres 
ents  that  the  gods  send  in  when  man  is  married  to 
mortality. 

The  car  glided  up  the  Golden  Way.  On  the  bridge 
of  the  great  cruiser  the  captain  stood,  trumpeting 
the  sights  of  the  big  city  to  his  passengers.  Wide- 


Sisters  of  the  Golden  Circle        199 

mouthed  and  open-eared,  they  heard  the  sights  of 
the  metropolis  thundered  forth  to  their  eyes.  Con 
fused,  delirious  with  excitement  and  provincial  long 
ings,  they  tried  to  make  ocular  responses  to  the 
megaphonic  ritual.  In  the  solemn  spires  of  spread 
ing  cathedrals  they  saw  the  home  of  the  Vanderbilts ; 
in  the  busy  bulk  of  the  Grand  Central  depot  they 
viewed,  wonderingly,  the  frugal  cot  of  Russell  Sage. 
Bidden  to  observe  the  highlands  of  the  Hudson,  they 
gaped,  unsuspecting,  at  the  upturned  mountains  of 
a  new-laid  sewer.  To  many  the  elevated  railroad 
•was  the  Rialto,  on  the  stations  of  which  uniformed 
men  sat  and  made  chop  suey  of  your  tickets.  And 
to  this  day  in  the  outlying  districts  many  have  it  that 
Chuck  Connors,  with  his  hand  on  his  heart,  leads 
reform;  and  that  but  for  the  noble  municipal  efforts 
of  one  Parkhurst,  a  district  attorney,  the  notorious 
""  Bishop  "  Potf,er  gang  would  have  destroyed  law 
and  order  from  the  Bowery  to  the  Harlem  River. 

But  I  beg  you  to  observe  Mrs.  James  Williams  — 
Hattie  Chalmers  that  was  —  once  the  Jjelle  of  Clover- 
dale.  Pale-blue  is  the  bride's,  if  she  will;  and  this 
colour  she  had  honoured.  Willingly  had  the  moss 
rosebud  loaned  to  her  cheeks  of  its  pink  —  and  as  for 
the  violet !  —  her  eyes  will  do  very  well  as  they  are, 
thank  you.  A  useless  strip  of  white  chaf  —  oh,  no, 


200  The  Four  Million 

he  was  guiding  the  auto  car  —  of  white  chiffon  —  or 
perhaps  it  was  grenadine  or  tulle  —  was  tied  beneath 
her  chin,  pretending  to  hold  her  bonnet  in  place. 
But  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  the  hatpins  did 
the  work. 

And  on  Mrs.  James  Williams's  face  was  recorded  a 
little  library  of  the  world's  best  thoughts  in  three 
volumes.  Volume  No.  1  contained  the  belief  that 
James  Williams  was  about  the  right  sort  of  thing. 
Volume  No.  2  was  an  essay  on  the  world,  declaring 
it  to  be  a  very  excellent  place.  Volume  No.  3  dis 
closed  the  belief  that  in  occupying  the  highest  seat 
in  a  Rubberneck  auto  they  were  travelling  the  pace 
that  passes  all  understanding. 

James  Williams,  you  would  have  guessed,  was 
about  twenty-four.  It  will  gratify  you  to  know  that 
your  estimate  was  so  accurate.  He  was  exactly 
twenty-three  years,  eleven  months  and  twenty-nine 
days  old.  He  was  well  built,  active,  strong- jawed, 
good-natured  and  rising.  He  was  on  his  wedding 
trip. 

Dear  kind  fairy,  please  cut  out  those  orders  for 
money  and  40  H.  P.  touring  cars  and  fame  and  a 
new  growth  of  hair  and  the  presidency  of  the  boat 
club.  Instead  of  any  of  them  turn  backward  —  oh, 
turn  backward  and  give  us  just  a  teeny-weeny  bit 


Sisters  of  the  Golden  Circle        201 

of  our  wedding  trip  over  again.  Just  an  hour,  dear 
fairy,  so  we  can  remember  how  the  grass  and  pop 
lar  trees  looked,  and  the  bow  of  those  bonnet  strings 
tied  beneath  her  chin  —  even  if  it  was  the  hatpins 
that  did  the  work.  Can't  do  it?  Very  well;  hurry 
up  with  that  touring  car  and  the  oil  stock,  then. 

Just  in  front  of  Mrs.  James  Williams  sat  a  girl  in 
a  loose  tan  jacket  and  a  straw  hat  adorned  with 
grapes  and  roses.  Only  in  dreams  and  milliners' 
shops  do  we,  alas!  gather  grapes  and  roses  at  one 
swipe.  This  girl  gazed  with  large  blue  eyes,  credu 
lous,  when  the  megaphone  man  roared  his  doctrine 
that  millionaires  were  things  about  which  we  should 
be  concerned.  Between  blasts  she  resorted  to  Epicte- 
tian  philosophy  in  the  form  of  pepsin  chewing  gum. 

At  this  girl's  right  hand  sat  a  young  man  about 
twenty-four.  He  was  well-built,  active,  strong- 
jawed  and  good-natured.  But  if  his  description 
seems  to  follow  that  of  James  Williams,  divest  it  of 
anything  Cloverdalian.  This  man  belonged  to  hard 
streets  and  sharp  corners.  He  looked  keenly  about 
him,  seeming  to  begrudge  the  asphalt  under  the  feet 
of  those  upon  whom  he  looked  down  from  his  perch. 

WTiile  the  megaphone  barks  at  a  famous  hostelry, 
let  me  whisper  you  through  the  low-tuned  cardia- 
phone  to  sit  tight;  for  now  things  are  about  to  hap- 


202  The  Four  Million 

pen,  and  the  great  city  will  close  over  them  again  as 
over  a  scrap  of  ticker  tape  floating  down  from  the 
den  of  a  Broad  street  bear. 

The  girl  in  the  tan  jacket  twisted  around  to  view 
the  pilgrims  on  the  last  seat.  The  other  passengers 
she  had  absorbed;  the  seat  behind  her  was  her  Blue 
beard's  chamber. 

Her  eyes  met  those  of  Mrs.  James  Williams.  Be 
tween  two  ticks  of  a  watch  they  exchanged  their 
life's  experiences,  histories,  hopes  and  fancies.  And 
all,  mind  you,  with  the  eye,  before  two  men  could 
have  decided  whether  to  draw  steel  or  borrow  a  match. 

The  bride  leaned  forward  low.  She  and  the  girl 
spoke  rapidly  together,  their  tongues  moving  quickly 
like  those  of  two  serpents  —  a  comparison  that  is  not 
meant  to  go  further.  Two  smiles  and  a  dozen  nods 
closed  the  conference. 

And  now  in  the  broad,  quiet  avenue  in  front  of 
the  Rubberneck  car  a  man  in  dark  clothes  stood  with 
uplifted  hand.  From  the  sidewalk  another  hurried 
to  join  him. 

The  girl  in  the  fruitful  hat  quickly  seized  her  com 
panion  by  the  arm  and  whispered  in  his  ear.  That 
young  man  exhibited  proof  of  ability  to  act  promptly. 
Crouching  low,  he  slid  over  the  edge  of  the  car,  hung 
iightly  for  an  instant,  and  then  disappeared.  Half 


Sisters  of  the  Golden  Circle        203 

a  dozen  of  the  top-riders  observed  his  feat,  wonder- 
ingly,  but  made  no  comment,  deeming  it  prudent  not 
to  express  surprise  at  what  might  be  the  conven 
tional  manner  of  alighting  in  this  bewildering  city. 
The  truant  passenger  dodged  a  hansom  and  then 
floated  past,  like  a  leaf  on  a  stream  between  a  furni 
ture  van  and  a  florist's  delivery  wagon. 

The  girl  in  the  tan  jacket  turned  again,  and  looked 
in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  James  Williams.  Then  she  faced 
about  and  sat  still  while  the  Rubberneck  auto  stopped 
at  the  flash  of  the  badge  under  the  coat  of  the  plain- 
clothes  man. 

"  What's  eatin'  you  ?  "  demanded  the  megaphonist, 
abandoning  his  professional  discourse  for  pure  Eng 
lish. 

"  Keep  her  at  anchor  for  a  minute,"  ordered  the 
officer.  "  There's  a  man  on  board  we  want  —  a 
Philadelphia  burglar  called  '  Pinky '  McGuire. 
There  he  is  on  the  back  seat.  Look  out  for  the  side, 
Donovan.'* 

Donovan  went  to  the  hind  wheel  and  looked  up  at 
James  Williams. 

"  Come  down,  old  sport,"  he  said,  pleasantly. 
*'  We've  got  you.  Back  to  Sleepytown  for  yours.  It 
ain't  a  bad  idea,  hidin'  on  a  Rubberneck,  though 
I'll  remember  that." 


204  The  Four  Million 

Softly  through  the  megaphone  came  the  advice  of 
the  conductor: 

"  Better  step  off,  sir,  and  explain.  The  car  must 
proceed  on  its  tour." 

James  Williams  belonged  among  the  level  heads. 
With  necessary  slowness  he  picked  his  way  through 
the  passengers  down  to  the  steps  at  the  front  of  the 
car.  His  wife  followed,  but  she  first  turned  her 
eyes  and  saw  the  escaped  tourist  glide  from  behind 
the  furniture  van  and  slip  behind  a  tree  on  the  edge 
of  the  little  park,  not  fifty  feet  away. 

Descended  to  the  ground,  James  Williams  faced 
his  captors  with  a  smile.  He  was  thinking  what  a 
good  story  he  would  have  to  tell  in  Cloverdale  about 
having  been  mistaken  for  a  burglar.  The  Rubber 
neck  coach  lingered,  out  of  respect  for  its  patrons. 
What  could  be  a  more  interesting  sight  than 
this? 

"  My  name  is  James  Williams,  of  Cloverdale,  Mis 
souri,"  he  said  kindly,  so  that  they  would  not  be 
too  greatly  mortified.  "  I  have  letters  here  that  will 
show  — " 

"  You'll  come  with  us,  please,"  announced  the 
plainclothes  man.  "  *  Pinky  '  McGuire's  description 
fits  you  like  flannel  washed  in  hot  suds.  A  detective 
saw  you  on  the  Rubberneck  up  at  Central  Park  and 


Sisters  of  the  Golden  Circle        205 

'phoned  down  to  take  you  in.  Do  your  explaining  at 
the  station-house." 

James  Williams's  wife  —  his  bride  of  two  weeks  — 
looked  him  in  the  face  with  a  strange,  soft  radiance 
in  her  eyes  and  a  flush  on  her  cheeks,  looked  him  in 
the  face  and  said: 

"  Go  with  'em  quietly,  *  Pinky,'  and  maybe  it'll  "be 
in  your  favour." 

And  then  as  the  Glaring-at-Gotham  car  rolled  away 
she  turned  and  threw  a  kiss  —  his  wife  threw  a  kiss 
—  at  some  one  high  up  on  the  seats  of  the  Rubber- 
Beck. 

"  Your  girl  gives  you  good  advice,  McGuire,"  said 
Donovan.  "  Come  on,  now." 

And  then  madness  descended  upon  and  occupied 
James  Williams.  He  pushed  his  hat  far  upon  the 
back  of  his  head. 

"  My  wife  seems  to  think  I  am  a  burglar,"  he 
said,  recklessly.  "  I  never  heard  of  her  being  crazy ; 
therefore  I  must  be.  And  if  I'm  crazy,  they  can't 
do  anything  to  me  for  killing  you  two  fools  in  my 
madness." 

Whereupon  he  resisted  arrest  so  cheerfully  and 
industriously  that  cops  had  to  be  whistled  for,  and 
afterwards  the  reserves,  to  disperse  a  few  thousand 
delighted  spectators. 


206  The  Four  Million 

At  the  station-house  the  desk  sergeant  asked  for 
his  name. 

"  McDoodle,  the  Pink,  or  Pinky  the  Brute,  I  for 
get  which,"  was  James  Williams's  answer.  "  But 
you  can  bet  I'm  a  burglar;  don't  leave  that  out. 
And  you  might  add  that  it  took  five  of  'em  to  pluck 
the  Pink.  I'd  especially  like  to  have  that  in  the 
records." 

In  an  hour  came  Mrs.  James  Williams,  with  Uncle 
Thomas,  of  Madison  Avenue,  in  a  respect-compelling 
motor  car  and  proofs  of  the  hero's  innocence  —  for 
all  the  world  like  the  third  act  of  a  drama  backed  by 
an  automobile  mfg.  co. 

After  the  police  had  sternly  reprimanded  James 
Williams  for  imitating  a  copyrighted  burglar  and 
given  him  as  honourable  a  discharge  as  the  depart 
ment  was  capable  of,  Mrs.  Williams  rearrested  him 
and  swept  him  into  an  angle  of  the  station-house. 
James  Williams  regarded  her  with  one  eye.  He  al 
ways  said  that  Donovan  closed  the  other  while  some 
body  was  holding  his  good  right  hand.  Never  before 
liad  he  given  her  a  word  of  reproach  or  of  reproof. 

"  If  you  can  explain,"  he  began  rather  stiffly,  "  why 
you  — " 

"  Dear,"  she  interrupted,  "  listen.  It  was  an 
hour's  pain  and  trial  to  you.  I  did  it  for  her  —  I 


Sisters  of  the  Golden  Circle  207 

mean  the  girl  who  spoke  to  me  on  the  coach.  I  was  so 
happy,  Jim  —  so  happy  with  you  that  I  didn't  dare 
to  refuse  that  happiness  to  another.  Jim,  they  were 
married  only  this  morning  —  those  two;  and  I  wanted 
him  to  get  away.  While  they  were  struggling  with 
you  I  saw  him  slip  from  behind  his  tree  and  hurry 
across  the  park.  That's  all  of  it,  dear  —  I  had  to 
do  it." 

Thus  does  one  sister  of  the  plain  gold  band  know 
another  who  stands  in  the  enchanted  light  that  shines 
but  once  and  briefly  for  each  one.  By  rice  and  satin 
bows  does  mere  man  become  aware  of  weddings.  But 
bride  knoweth  bride  at  the  glance  of  an  eye.  And 
between  them  swiftly  passes  comfort  and  meaning  in 
a  language  that  man  and  widows  wot  not  of. 


PlTCHER,  confidential  clerk  in  the  office  of  Harvey 
Maxwell,  broker,  allowed  a  look  of  mild  interest  and 
surprise  to  visit  his  usually  expressionless  counte 
nance  when  his  employer  briskly  entered  at  half  past 
nine  in  company  with  his  young  lady  stenographer. 
With  a  snappy  "  Good-morning,  Pitcher,"  Maxwell 
dashed  at  his  desk  as  though  he  were  intending  to 
leap  over  it,  and  then  plunged  into  the  great  heap  of 
letters  and  telegrams  waiting  there  for  him. 

The  young  lady  had  been  Maxwell's  stenographer 
for  a  year.  She  was  beautiful  in  a  way  that  was 
decidedly  unstenographic.  She  forewent  the  pomp 
of  the  alluring  pompadour.  She  wore  no  chains, 
bracelets  or  lockets.  She  had  not  the  air  of  being 
about  to  accept  an  invitation  to  luncheon.  Her  dress 
was  grey  and  plain,  but  it  fitted  her  figure  with  fidel 
ity  and  discretion.  In  her  neat  black  turban  hat 
was  the  gold-green  wing  of  a  macaw.  On  this  morn 
ing  she  was  softly  and  shyly  radiant.  Her  eyes  were 
dreamily  bright,  her  cheeks  genuine  peachblow,  her 
expression  a  happy  one,  tinged  with  reminiscence. 


The  Romance  of  a  Busy  Broker    209 

Pitcher,  still  mildly  curious,  noticed  a  difference  in 
her  ways  this  morning.  Instead  of  going  straight 
into  the  adjoining  room,  where  her  desk  was,  she 
lingered,  slightly  irresolute,  in  the  outer  office.  Once 
she  moved  over  by  Maxwell's  desk,  near  enough  for 
him  to  be  aware  of  her  presence. 

The  machine  sitting  at  that  desk  was  no  longer  a 
man ;  it  was  a  busy  New  York  broker,  moved  by  buzz 
ing  wheels  and  uncoiling  springs. 

"  Well  —  what  is  it?  Anything?  "  asked  Maxwell 
sharply.  His  opened  mail  lay  like  a  bank  of  stage 
snow  on  his  crowded  desk.  His  keen  grey  eye,  im 
personal  and  brusque,  flashed  upon  her  half  impa 
tiently. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  stenographer,  moving 
away  with  a  little  smile. 

"  Mr.  Pitcher,"  she  said  to  the  confidential  clerk, 
"  did  Mr.  Maxwell  say  anything  yesterday  about  en 
gaging  another  stenographer?  " 

"  He  did,"  answered  Pitcher.  "  He  told  me  to  get 
another  one.  I  notified  the  agency  yesterday  after 
noon  to  send  over  a  few  samples  this  morning.  It's 
9.45  o'clock,  and  not  a  single  picture  hat  or  piece  of 
pineapple  chewing  gum  has  showed  up  yet." 

"  I  will  do  the  work  as  usual,  then,"  said  the  young 
lady,  "  until  some  one  comes  to  fill  the  place."  And 


210  The  Four  Million 

she  went  to  her  desk  at  once  and  hung  the  black 
turban  hat  with  the  gold-green  macaw  wing  in  its 
accustomed  place. 

He  who  has  been  denied  the  spectacle  of  a  busy 
Manhattan  broker  during  a  rush  of  business  is  handi 
capped  for  the  profession  of  anthropology.  The 
poet  sings  of  the  "  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life." 
The  broker's  hour  is  not  only  crowded,  but  the  min 
utes  and  seconds  are  hanging  to  all  the  straps  and 
packing  both  front  and  rear  platforms. 

And  this  day  was  Harvey  Maxwell's  busy  day. 
The  ticker  began  to  reel  out  jerkily  its  fitful  coils  of 
tape,  the  desk  telephone  had  a  chronic  attack  of 
buzzing.  Men  began  to  throng  into  the  office  and 
£all  at  him  over  the  railing,  jovially,  sharply, 
viciously,  excitedly.  Messenger  boys  ran  in  and  out 
with  messages  and  telegrams.  The  clerks  in  the  of 
fice  jumped  about  like  sailors  during  a  storm.  Even 
Pitcher's  face  relaxed  into  something  resembling  ani 
mation. 

On  the  Exchange  there  were  hurricanes  and  land 
slides  and  snowstorms  and  glaciers  and  volcanoes, 
and  those  elemental  disturbances  were  reproduced  in 
miniature  in  the  broker's  offices.  Maxwell  shoved  his 
chair  against  the  wall  and  transacted  business  after 
the  manner  of  a  toe  dancer.  He  jumped  from  ticker 


The  Romance  of  a  Busy  Broker    211 

to  'phone,  from  desk  to  door  with  the  trained  agility 
of  a  harlequin. 

In  the  midst  of  this  growing  and  important  stress 
the  broker  became  suddenly  aware  of  a  high-rolled 
fringe  of  golden  hair  under  a  nodding  canopy  of  vel* 
ret  and  ostrich  tips,  an  imitation  sealskin  sacque  and 
a  string  of  beads  as  large  as  hickory  nuts,  ending 
near  the  floor  with  a  silver  heart.  There  was  a  self- 
possessed  young  lady  connected  with  these  acces 
sories  ;  and  Pitcher  was  there  to  construe  her. 

"  Lady  from  the  Stenographer's  Agency  to  see 
about  the  position,"  said  Pitcher. 

Maxwell  turned  half  around,  with  his  hands  full  of 
papers  and  ticker  tape. 

"  What  position  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  frown. 

"  Position  of  stenographer,"  said  Pitcher.  "  You 
told  me  yesterday  to  call  them  up  and  have  one  sent 
over  this  morning." 

"  You  are  losing  your  mind,  Pitcher,"  said  Max 
well.  "  Why  should  I  have  given  you  any  such  in 
structions?  Miss  Leslie  has  given  perfect  satisfac 
tion  during  the  year  she  has  been  here.  The  place 
is  hers  as  long  as  she  chooses  to  retain  it.  There's 
no  place  open  here,  madam.  Countermand  that  or 
der  with  the  agency,  Pitcher,  and  don't  bring  any 
more  of  'em  in  here." 


212  The  Four  Million 

The  silver  heart  left  the  office,  swinging  and  bang 
ing  itself  independently  against  the  office  furniture 
as  it  indignantly  departed.  Pitcher  seized  a  moment 
to  remark  to  the  bookkeeper  that  the  "  old  man  " 
seemed  to  get  more  absent-minded  and  forgetful 
every  day  of  the  world. 

The  rush  and  pace  of  business  grew  fiercer  and 
faster.  On  the  floor  they  were  pounding  half  a  dozen 
stocks  in  which  Maxwell's  customers  were  heavy  in 
vestors.  Orders  to  buy  and  sell  were  coming  and 
going  as  swift  as  the  flight  of  swallows.  Some  of 
his  own  holdings  were  imperilled,  and  the  man  was 
working  like  some  high-geared,  delicate,  strong  ma 
chine  —  strung  to  full  tension,  going  at  full  speed, 
accurate,  never  hesitating,  with  the  proper  word  and 
decision  and  act  ready  and  prompt  as  clockwork. 
Stocks  and  bonds,  loans  and  mortgages,  margins  and 
securities  —  here  was  a  world  of  finance,  and  there 
was  no  room  in  it  for  the  human  world  or  the  world 
of  nature. 

When  the  luncheon  hour  drew  near  there  came  a 
slight  lull  in  the  uproar. 

Maxwell  stood  by  his  desk  with  his  hands  full  of 
telegrams  and  memoranda,  with  a  fountain  pen  over 
his  right  ear  and  his  hair  hanging  in  disorderly 
strings  over  his  forehead.  His  window  was  open,  for 


The  Romance  of  a  Busy  Broker    218 

the  beloved  janitress  Spring  had  turned  on  a  little 
warmth  through  the  waking  registers  of  the  earth. 

And  through  the  window  came  a  wandering  —  per 
haps  a  lost  —  odour  —  a  delicate,  sweet  odour  of  lilac 
that  fixed  the  broker  for  a  moment  immovable.  For 
this  odour  belonged  to  Miss  Leslie;  it  was  her  own, 
and  hers  only. 

The  odour  brought  her  vividly,  almost  tangibly 
before  him.  The  world  of  finance  dwindled  suddenly 
to  a  speck.  And  she  was  in  the  next  room  —  twenty 
steps  away. 

"  By  George,  I'll  do  it  now,"  said  Maxwell,  half 
aloud.  "  I'll  ask  her  now.  I  wonder  I  didn't  do  it 
long  ago." 

He  dashed  into  the  inner  office  with  the  haste  of  a 
short  trying  to  cover.  He  charged  upon  the  desk  of 
the  stenographer. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile.  A  soft  pink 
crept  over  her  cheek,  and  her  eyes  were  kind  and 
frank.  Maxwell  leaned  one  elbow  on  her  desk.  He 
still  clutched  fluttering  papers  with  both  hands  and 
the  pen  was  above  his  ear. 

"  Miss  Leslie,"  he  began  hurriedly,  "  I  have  but  a 
moment  to  spare.  I  want  to  say  something  in  that 
moment.  Will  you  be  my  wife?  I  haven't  had  time 
to  make  love  to  you  in  the  ordinary  way,  but  I  really 


214  The  Four  Million 

do  love  you.  Talk  quick,  please  —  those  fellows  are 
clubbing  the  stuffing  out  of  Union  Pacific." 

"  Oh,  what  are  you  talking  about?  "  exclaimed  the 
young  lady.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and  gazed  upon 
him,  round-eyed. 

"  Don't  you  understand?  "  said  Maxwell,  restively. 
"  I  want  you  to  marry  me.  I  love  you,  Miss  Leslie. 
I  wanted  to  tell  you,  and  I  snatched  a  minute  whem 
things  had  slackened  up  a  bit.  They're  calling  me 
for  the  'phone  now.  Tell  'em  to  wait  a  minute, 
Pitcher.  Won't  you,  Miss  Leslie  ?  " 

The  stenographer  acted  very  queerly.  At  first  she 
seemed  overcome  with  amazement;  then  tears  flowed 
from  her  wondering  eyes;  and  then  she  smiled  sun 
nily  through  them,  and  one  of  her  arms  slid  tenderly 
about  the  broker's  neck. 

"  I  know  now,"  she  said,  softly.  "  It's  this  old 
business  that  has  driven  everything  else  out  of  your 
head  for  the  time.  I  was  frightened  at  first.  Don't 
you  remember,  Harvey?  We  were  married  last  even 
ing  at  8  o'clock  in  the  Little  Church  Around  the 
Corner." 


AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS 

iHE  policeman  on  the  beat  moved  up  the  avenue 
impressively.  The  impressiveness  was  habitual  and 
not  for  show,  for  spectators  were  few.  The  time 
was  barely  10  o'clock  at  night,  but  chilly  gusts  of 
wind  with  a  taste  of  rain  in  them  had  well  nigh  de- 
peopled  the  streets. 

Trying  doors  as  he  went,  twirling  his  club  with 
many  intricate  and  artful  movements,  turning  now 
and  then  to  cast  his  watchful  eye  adown  the  pacific 
thoroughfare,  the  officer,  with  his  stalwart  form  and 
slight  swagger,  made  a  fine  picture  of  a  guardian  of 
the  peace.  The  vicinity  was  one  that  kept  early 
hours.  Now  and  then  you  might  see  the  lights  of  a 
cigar  store  or  of  an  all-night  lunch  counter;  but  the 
majority  of  the  doors  belonged  to  business  places 
that  had  long  since  been  closed. 

When  about  midway  of  a  certain  block  the  police 
man  suddenly  slowed  his  walk.  In  the  doorway  of 
a  darkened  hardware  store  a  man  leaned,  with  an 
unlighted  cigar  in  his  mouth.  As  the  policeman 

walked  up  to  him  the  man  spoke  up  quickly. 

215 


216  The  Four  Million 

"  It's  all  right,  officer,"  he  said,  reassuringly. 
"  I'm  just  waiting  for  a  friend.  It's  an  appointment 
made  twenty  years  ago.  Sounds  a  little  funny  to 
you,  doesn't  it?  Well,  I'll  explain  if  you'd  like  to 
make  certain  it's  all  straight.  About  that  long  ago 
there  used  to  be  a  restaurant  where  this  store  stands 
— '  Big  Joe  '  Brady's  restaurant." 

"  Until  five  years  ago,"  said  the  policeman.  "  It 
was  torn  down  then." 

The  man  in  the  doorway  struck  a  match  and  lit  his 
cigar.  The  light  showed  a  pale,  square- jawed  face 
with  keen  eyes,  and  a  little  white  scar  near  his  right 
eyebrow.  His  scarfpin  was  a  large  diamond,  oddly 
Set. 

"  Twenty  years  ago  to-night,"  said  the  man,  "  I 
dined  here  at  *  Big  Joe '  Brady's  with  Jimmy  Wells, 
my  best  chum,  and  the  finest  chap  in  the  world.  He 
and  I  were  raised  here  in  New  York,  just  like  two 
brothers,  together.  I  was  eighteen  and  Jimmy  was 
twenty.  The  next  morning  I  was  to  start  for  the 
West  to  make  my  fortune.  You  couldn't  have 
dragged  Jimmy  out  of  New  York ;  he  thought  it  was 
the  only  place  on  earth.  Well,  we  agreed  that  night 
that  we  would  meet  here  again  exactly  twenty  years 
from  that  date  and  time,  no  matter  what  our  con 
ditions  might  be  or  from  what  distance  we  might 


After  Twenty  Years  217. 

have  to  ccme.  We  figured  that  in  twenty  years  each 
of  us  ought  to  have  our  destiny  worked  out  and  our 
fortunes  made,  whatever  they  were  going  to  be." 

"  It  sounds  pretty  interesting,"  said  the  policeman. 
"  Rather  a  long  time  between  meets,  though,  it  seems 
to  me.  Haven't  you  heard  from  your  friend  since 
you  left?" 

"  Well,  yes,  for  a  time  we  corresponded,"  said  the 
other.  "  But  after  a  year  or  two  we  lost  track  of 
each  other.  You  see,  the  West  is  a  pretty  big  propo 
sition,  and  I  kept  hustling  around  over  it  pretty 
lively.  But  I  know  Jimmy  will  meet  me  here  if 
he's  alive,  for  he  always  was  the  truest,  stanchest  old 
chap  in  the  world.  He'll  never  forget.  I  came  a 
thousand  miles  to  stand  in  this  door  to-night,  and  it's 
worth  it  if  my  old  partner  turns  up." 

The  waiting  man  pulled  out  a  handsome  watch,  the 
lids  of  it  set  with  small  diamonds. 

"  Three  minutes  to  ten,"  he  announced.  "  It  was 
exactly  ten  o'clock  when  we  parted  here  at  the  res 
taurant  door." 

"  Did  pretty  well  out  West,  didn't  you?  "  asked 
the  policeman. 

"  You  bet !  I  hope  Jimmy  has  done  half  as  well. 
He  was  a  kind  of  plodder,  though,  good  fellow  as  he 
was.  I've  had  to  compete  with  some  of  the  sharpest 


218  The  Four  Million 

wits  going  to  get  my  pile.  A  man  gets  in  a  groove 
in  New  York.  It  takes  the  West  to  put  a  razor-edge 
on  him." 

The  policeman  twirled  his  club  and  took  a  step  or 
two. 

"  I'll  be  on  my  way.  Hope  your  friend  comes 
around  all  right.  Going  to  call  time  on  him 
sharp?  " 

"  I  should  say  not ! "  said  the  other.  "  I'll  give 
him  half  an  hour  at  least.  If  Jimmy  is  alive  on  earth 
he'll  be  here  by  that  time.  So  long,  officer." 

"  Good-night,  sir,"  said  the  policeman,  passing  on 
along  his  beat,  trying  doors  as  he  went. 

There  was  now  a  fine,  cold  drizzle  falling,  and  the 
wind  had  risen  from  its  uncertain  puffs  into  a  steady 
blow.  The  few  foot  passengers  astir  in  that  quarter 
hurried  dismally  and  silently  along  with  coat  collars 
turned  high  and  pocketed  hands.  And  in  the  door  of 
the  hardware  store  the  man  who  had  come  a  thou 
sand  miles  to  fill  an  appointment,  uncertain  almost 
to  absurdity,  with  the  friend  of  his  youth,  smoked 
his  cigar  and  waited. 

About  twenty  minutes  he  waited,  and  then  a  tall 
man  in  a  long  overcoat,  with  collar  turned  up  to  his 
ears,  hurried  across  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street.  He  went  directly  to  the  waiting  man. 


After  Twenty  Years  219 

"  Is  that  you,  Bob  ?  "  he  asked,  doubtfully. 

"  Is  that  you,  Jimmy  Wells  ?  "  cried  the  man  in  the 
door. 

"  Bless  my  heart ! "  exclaimed  the  new  arrival, 
grasping  both  the  other's  hands  with  his  own.  "  It's 
Bob,  sure  as  fate.  I  was  certain  I'd  find  you  here 
if  you  were  still  in  existence.  Well,  well,  well !  — ; 
twenty  years  is  a  long  time.  The  old  restaurant's 
gone,  Bob ;  I  wish  it  had  lasted,  so  we  could  have  had 
another  dinner  there.  How  has  the  West  treated 
you,  old  man  ?  " 

"  Bully ;  it  has  given  me  everything  I  asked  it  for. 
You've  changed  lots,  Jimmy.  I  never  thought  you 
were  so  tall  by  two  or  three  inches." 

"  Oh,  I  grew  a  bit  after  I  was  twenty." 

"  Doing  well  in  New  York,  Jimmy?  " 

"  Moderately.  I  have  a  position  in  one  of  the  city 
departments.  Come  on,  Bob;  we'll  go  around  to  a 
place  I  know  of,  and  have  a  good  long  talk  about 
old  times." 

The  two  men  started  up  the  street,  arm  in  arm. 
The  man  from  the  West,  his  egotism  enlarged  by  suc 
cess,  was  beginning  to  outline  the  history  of  his  ca 
reer.  The  other,  submerged  in  his  overcoat,  listened 
with  interest. 

At  the  corner  stood  a  drug  store,  brilliant  with 


220  The  Four  Million 

electric  lights.  When  they  came  into  this  glare  each 
of  them  turned  simultaneously  to  gaze  upon  the  oth 
er's  face. 

The  man  from  the  West  stopped  suddenly  and  re 
leased  his  arm. 

"  You're  not  'Jimmy  Wells,"  he  snapped. 
"  Twenty  years  is  a  long  time,  but  not  long  enough  to 
change  a  man's  nose  from  a  Roman  to  a  pug." 

"  It  sometimes  changes  a  good  man  into  a  bad  one," 
said  the  tall  man.  "  You've  been  under  arrest  for  ten 
minutes,  '  Silky  '  Bob.  Chicago  thinks  you  may  have 
dropped  over  our  way  and  wires  us  she  wants  to  have 
a  chat  with  you.  Going  quietly,  are  you?  That's 
sensible.  Now,  before  we  go  on  to  the  station  here's 
a  note  I  was  asked  to  hand  you.  You  may  read  it 
here  at  the  window.  It's  from  Patrolman  Wells." 

The  man  from  the  West  unfolded  the  little  piece 
of  paper  handed  him.  His  hand  was  steady  when  he 
began  to  read,  but  it  trembled  a  little  by  the  time  he 
had  finished.  The  note  was  rather  short. 

"  Bob :  I  "was  at  the  appointed  place  on  time. 
When  you  struck  the  match  to  light  your  cigar  I  saw 
it  was  the  face  of  the  man  wanted  in  Chicago.  Some 
how  I  couldn't  do  it  myself,  so  I  went  around  and  got 
a  plain  clothes  man  to  do  the  job. 


LOST  ON  DRESS  PARADE 

MR.  TOWERS  CHANDLER  was  pressing  his 
evening  suit  in  his  hall  bedroom.  One  iron  was 
heating  on  a  small  gas  stove;  the  other  was  being 
pushed  vigorously  back  and  forth  to  make  the 
desirable  crease  that  would  be  seen  later  on  extend 
ing  in  straight  lines  from  Mr.  Chandler's  patent 
leather  shoes  to  the  edge  of  his  low-cut  vest.  So 
much  of  the  hero's  toilet  may  be  intrusted  to  our 
confidence.  The  remainder  may  be  guessed  by  those 
whom  genteel  poverty  has  driven  to  ignoble  expedi 
ent.  Our  next  view  of  him  shall  be  as  he  descends 
the  steps  of  his  lodging-house  immaculately  and  cor 
rectly  clothed ;  calm,  assured,  handsome  —  in  appear 
ance  the  typical  New  York  young  clubman  setting 
out,  slightly  bored,  to  inaugurate  the  pleasures  of 
the  evening. 

Chandler's  honorarium  was  $18  per  week.  He  was 
employed  in  the  office  of  an  architect.  He  was 
twenty-two  years  old;  he  considered  architecture  to 
be  truly  an  art ;  and  he  honestly  believed  —  though  he 

would  not  have  dared  to  admit  it  in  New  York  —  that 

$21 


222  The  Four  Million 

the  Flatiron  Building  was  Inferior  to  design  to  the 
great  cathedral  in  Milan. 

Out  of  each  week's  earnings  Chandler  set  aside 
$1.  At  the  end  of  each  ten  weeks  with  the  extra 
capital  thus  accumulated,  he  purchased  one  gentle 
man's  evening  from  the  bargain  counter  of  stingy 
old  Father  Time.  He  arrayed  himself  in  the  regalia 
of  millionaires  and  presidents ;  he  took  himself  to  the 
quarter  where  life  is  brightest  and  showiest,  and 
there  dined  with  taste  and  luxury.  With  ten  dollars 
&  man  may,  for  a  few  hours,  play  the  wealthy  idler 
to  perfection.  The  sum  is  ample  for  a  well-con 
sidered  meal,  a  bottle  bearing  a  respectable  label, 
commensurate  tips,  a  smoke,  cab  fare  and  the  or 
dinary  etceteras. 

This  one  delectable  evening  culled  from  each  dull 
seventy  was  to  Chandler  a  source  of  renascent  bliss. 
To  the  society  bud  comes  but  one  debut;  it  stands 
alone  sweet  in  her  memory  when  her  hair  has 
whitened;  but  to  Chandler  each  ten  weeks  brought  a 
joy  as  keen,  as  thrilling,  as  new  as  the  first  had 
been.  To  sit  among  bon  vivants  under  palms  in  the 
swirl  of  concealed  music,  to  look  upon  the  habitues 
of  such  a  paradise  and  to  be  looked  upon  by  them  — 
what  is  a  girl's  first  dance  and  short-sleeved  tulle 
compared  with  this? 


Lost  on  Dress  Parade  223 

Up  Broadway  Chandler  moved  with  the  vespertine 
dress  parade.  For  this  evening  he  was  an  exhibit 
as  well  as  a  gazer.  For  the  next  sixty-nine  evenings 
he  would  be  dining  in  cheviot  and  worsted  at  dubious 
table  d'hotes,  at  whirlwind  lunch  counters,  on  sand 
wiches  and  beer  in  his  hall  bedroom.  He  was  willing 
to  do  that,  for  he  was  a  true  son  of  the  great  city  of 
razzle-dazzle,  and  to  him  one  evening  in  the  limelight 
made  up  for  many  dark  ones. 

Chandler  protracted  his  walk  until  the  Forties  be 
gan  to  intersect  the  great  and  glittering  primrose 
way,  for  the  evening  was  yet  young,  and  when  one 
is  of  the  beau  monde  only  one  day  in  seventy,  one 
loves  to  protract  the  pleasure.  Eyes  bright,  sinister, 
curious,  admiring,  provocative,  alluring  were  bent 
upon  him,  for  his  garb  and  air  proclaimed  him  a 
devotee  to  th*e  hour  of  solace  and  pleasure. 

At  a  certain  corner  he  came  to  a  standstill,  pro 
posing  to  himself  the  question  of  turning  back  toward 
the  showy  and  fashionable  restaurant  in  which  he 
usually  dined  on  the  evenings  of  his  especial  luxury. 
Just  then  a  girl  scudded  lightly  around  the  corner, 
slipped  on  a  patch  of  icy  snow  and  fell  plump  upon 
the  sidewalk. 

Chandler  assisted  her  to  her  feet  with  instant  and 
solicitous  courtesy.  The  girl  hobbled  to  the  wall  of 


224  The  Four  Million 

the  building,  leaned  against  it,  and  thanked  him  de 
murely. 

"  I  think  my  ankle  is  strained,"  she  said.  "  It 
twisted  when  I  fell.'* 

"  Does  it  pain  you  much  ?  "  inquired  Chandler. 

"  Only  when  I  rest  my  weight  upon  it.  I  think  I 
will  be  able  to  walk  in  a  minute  or  two." 

"  If  I  can  be  of  any  further  service,"  suggested 
the  young  man,  "  I  will  call  a  cab,  or  — " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  girl,  softly  but  heartily. 
"  I  am  sure  you  need  not  trouble  yourself  any  fur 
ther.  It  was  so  awkward  of  me.  And  my  shoe  heels 
are  horridly  common-sense;  I  can't  blame  them  at 
all." 

Chandler  looked  at  the  girl  and  found  her  swiftly 
drawing  his  interest.  She  was  pretty  in  a  refined 
way;  and  her  eye  was  both  merry  and  kind.  She 
was  inexpensively  clothed  in  a  plain  black  dress  that 
suggested  a  sort  of  uniform  such  as  shop  girls  wear. 
Her  glossy  dark-brown  hair  showed  its  coils  beneath 
a  cheap  hat  of  black  straw  whose  only  ornament  was 
a  velvet  ribbon  and  bow.  She  could  have  posed  as  a 
model  for  the  self-respecting  working  girl  of  the  best 
type. 

A  sudden  idea  came  into  the  head  of  the  young 
architect.  He  would  ask  this  girl  to  dine  with  him. 


Lost  on  Dress  Parade  225 

Here  was  the  element  that  his  splendid  but  solitary 
periodic  feasts  had  lacked.  His  brief  season  of  ek- 
gant  luxury  would  be  doubly  enjoyable  if  he  could 
add  to  it  a  lady's  society.  This  girl  was  a  lady,  he 
was  sure  —  her  manner  and  speech  settled  that. 
And  in  spite  of  her  extremely  plain  attire  he  felt  that 
he  would  be  pleased  to  sit  at  table  with  her. 

These  thoughts  passed  swiftly  through  his  mind, 
and  he  decided  to  ask  her.  It  was  a  breach  of  eti 
quette,  of  course,  but  oftentimes  wage-earning  girls 
waived  formalities  in  matters  of  this  kind.  They 
were  generally  shrewd  judges  of  men;  and  thought 
better  of  their  own  judgment  than  they  did  of  use 
less  conventions.  His  ten  dollars,  discreetly  ex 
pended,  would  enable  the  two  to  dine  very  well  in 
deed.  The  dinner  would  no  doubt  be  a  wonderful 
experience  thrown  into  the  dull  routine  of  the  girl's 
life;  and  her  lively  appreciation  of  it  would  add  to 
his  own  triumph  and  pleasure. 

"  I  think,"  he  said  to  her,  with  frank  gravity, 
"  that  your  foot  needs  a  longer  rest  than  you  sup 
pose.  Now,  I  am  going  to  suggest  a  way  in  which 
you  can  give  it  that  and  at  the  same  time  do  me  a 
favour.  I  was  on  my  way  to  dine  all  by  my  lonely 
self  when  you  came  tumbling  around  the  corner. 
You  come  with  me  and  we'll  have  a  cozy  dinner  and 


226  The  Four  Million 

a  pleasant  talk  together,  and  by  that  time  your 
game  ankle  will  carry  you  home  very  nicely,  I  am 
sure." 

The  girl  looked  quickly  up  into  Chandler's  clear, 
pleasant  countenance.  Her  eyes  twinkled  once  very 
brightly,  and  then  she  smiled  ingenuously. 

"  But  we  don't  know  each  other  —  it  wouldn't  be 
right,  would  it?  "  she  said,  doubtfully. 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong  about  it,"  said  the  young 
man,  candidly.  "  I'll  introduce  myself  —  permit  me 
1 —  Mr.  Towers  Chandler.  After  our  dinner,  which  I 
will  try  to  make  as  pleasant  as  possible,  I  will  bid  you 
good-evening,  or  attend  you  safely  to  your  door, 
whichever  you  prefer." 

"  But,  dear  me !  "  said  the  girl,  with  a  glance  at 
Chandler's  faultless  attire.  "  In  this  old  dress  and 
hat!" 

"  Never  mind  that,"  said  Chandler,  cheerfully. 
"  I'm  sure  you  look  more  charming  in  them  than  any 
one  we  shall  see  in  the  most  elaborate  dinner 
toilette." 

"  My  ankle  does  hurt  yet,"  admitted  the  girl,  at 
tempting  a  limping  step.  "  I  think  I  will  accept  your 
invitation,  Mr.  Chandler.  You  may  call  me  —  Miss 
Marian." 

"  Come  then,  Miss  Marian,"  said  the  young  archi- 


Lost  on  Dress  Parade  227 

tect,  gaily,  but  with  perfect  courtesy;  "you  will 
not  have  far  to  walk.  There  is  a  very  respectable 
and  good  restaurant  in  the  next  block.  You  will 
have  to  lean  on  my  arm  —  so  —  and  walk  slowly.  It 
is  lonely  dining  all  by  one's  self.  I'm  just  a  little  bit 
glad  that  you  slipped  on  the  ice." 

When  the  two  were  established  at  a  well-appointed 
table,  with  a  promising  waiter  hovering  in  attend 
ance,  Chandler  began  to  experience  the  real  joy  that 
his  regular  outing  always  brought  to  him. 

The  restaurant  was  not  so  showy  or  pretentious 
as  the  one  further  down  Broadway,  which  he  always 
preferred,  but  it  was  nearly  so.  The  tables  were  well 
filled  with  prosperous-looking  diners,  there  was  a 
good  orchestra,  playing  softly  enough  to  make  con 
versation  a  possible  pleasure,  and  the  cuisine  and 
service  were  beyond  criticism.  His  companion,  even 
in  her  cheap  hat  and  dress,  held  herself  with  an  air 
that  added  distinction  to  the  natural  beauty  of  her 
face  and  figure.  And  it  is  certain  that  she  looked  at 
Chandler,  with  his  animated  but  self-possessed  man 
ner  and  his  kindling  and  frank  blue  eyes,  with  some 
thing  not  far  from  admiration  in  her  own  charming 
face. 

Then  it  was  that  the  Madness  of  Manhattan,  the 
Prenzy  of  Fuss  and  Feathers,  the  Bacillus  of  Brag, 


228  The  Four  Million 

the  Provincial  Plague  of  Pose  seized  upon  Towers 
Chandler.  He  was  on  Broadway,  surrounded  by 
pomp  and  style,  and  there  were  eyes  to  look  at  him. 
On  the  stage  of  that  comedy  he  had  assumed  to  play 
the  one-night  part  of  a  butterfly  of  fashion  and  an 
idler  of  means  and  taste.  He  was  dressed  for  the 
part,  and  all  his  good  angels  had  not  the  power  to 
prevent  him  from  acting  it. 

So  he  began  to  prate  to  Miss  Marian  of  clubs,  of 
teas,  of  golf  and  riding  and  kennels  and  cotillions 
and  tours  abroad  and  threw  out  hints  of  a  yacht  lying 
at  Larchmont.  He  could  see  that  she  was  vastly 
impressed  by  this  vague  talk,  so  he  endorsed  his  pose 
by  random  insinuations  concerning  great  wealth,  and 
mentioned  familiarly  a  few  names  that  are  handled 
reverently  by  the  proletariat.  It  was  Chandler's 
short  little  day,  and  he  was  wringing  from  it  the  best 
that  could  be  had,  as  he  saw  it.  And  yet  once  or 
twice  he  saw  the  pure  gold  of  this  girl  shine  through 
the  mist  that  his  egotism  had  raised  between  him  and 
all  objects. 

"  This  way  of  living  that  you  speak  of,"  she  said, 
"  sounds  so  futile  and  purposeless.  Haven't  you  any 
work  to  do  in  the  world  that  might  interest  you 
more  ?  " 

'*  My  dear  Miss  Marian,"  he  exclaimed  — "  work ! 


Lost  on  Dress  Parade  229 

Think  of  dressing  every  day  for  dinner,  of  making 
half  a  dozen  calls  in  an  afternoon  —  with  a  policemaa 
at  every  corner  ready  to  jump  into  your  auto  and 
take  you  to  the  station,  if  you  get  up  any  greater 
speed  than  a  donkey  cart's  gait.  We  do-nothings 
are  the  hardest  workers  in  the  land." 

The  dinner  was  concluded,  the  waiter  generously 
fed,  and  the  two  walked  out  to  the  corner  where  they 
had  met.  Miss  Marian  walked  very  well  now;  her 
limp  was  scarcely  noticeable. 

"  Thank  you  for  a  nice  time,"  she  said,  frankly. 
"  I  must  run  home  now.  I  liked  the  dinner  very 
much,  Mr.  Chandler." 

He  shook  hands  with  her,  smiling  cordially,  and 
said  something  about  a  game  of  bridge  at  his  club. 
He  watched  her  for  a  moment,  walking  rather  rapidly 
eastward,  and  then  he  found  a  cab  to  drive  him 
slowly  homeward. 

In  his  chilly  bedroom  Chandler  laid  away  his  even 
ing  clothes  for  a  sixty-nine  days'  rest.  He  went 
about  it  thoughtfully. 

"  That  was  a  stunning  girl,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  She's  all  right,  too,  I'd  be  sworn,  even  if  she  does 
have  to  work.  Perhaps  if  I'd  told  her  the  truth  in 
stead  of  all  that  razzle-dazzle  we  might  —  but,  con 
found  it !  I  had  to  play  up  to  my  clothes." 


230  The  Four  Million 

Thus  spoke  the  brave  who  was  born  and  reared  in 
the  wigwams  of  the  tribe  of  the  Manhattans. 

The  girl,  after  leaving  her  entertainer,  sped  swiftly 
cross-town  until  she  arrived  at  a  handsome  and  sedate 
mansion  two  squares  to  the  east,  facing  on  that  ave 
nue  which  is  the  highway  of  Mammon  and  the  aux 
iliary  gods.  Here  she  entered  hurriedly  and  as 
cended  to  a  room  where  a  handsome  young  lady  m 
an  elaborate  house  dress  was  looking  anxiously  out 
the  window. 

"  Oh,  you  madcap !  "  exclaimed  the  elder  girl,  when 
the  other  entered.  "  When  will  you  quit  frightening 
us  this  way?  It  is  two  hours  since  you  ran  out  in 
that  rag  of  an  old  dress  and  Marie's  hat.  Mamma 
has  been  so  alarmed.  She  sent  Louis  in  the  auto  to 
try  to  find  you.  You  are  a  bad,  thoughtless  Puss." 

The  elder  girl  touched  a  button,  and  a  maid  came 
in  a  moment. 

"  Marie,  tell  mamma  that  Miss  Marian  has  re 
turned." 

"  Don't  scold,  sister.  I  only  ran  down  to  Mme. 
Theo's  to  tell  her  to  use  mauve  insertion  instead  of 
pink.  My  costume  and  Marie's  hat  were  just  what 
I  needed.  Every  one  thought  I  was  a  shopgirl,  I  am 
sure." 

"  Dinner  is  over,  dear ;  you  stayed  so  late." 


Lost  on  Dress  Parade  231 

"  I  know.  I  slipped  on  the  sidewalk  and  turned 
my  ankle.  I  could  not  walk,  so  I  hobbled  into  a  res 
taurant  and  sat  there  until  I  was  better.  That  is 
why  I  was  so  long." 

The  two  girls  sat  in  the  window  seat,  looking  out 
at  the  lights  and  the  stream  of  hurrying  vehicles  in 
the  avenue.  The  younger  one  cuddled  down  with  her 
head  in  her  sister's  lap. 

"  We  will  have  to  marry  some  day,'*  she  said 
dreamily  — "  both  of  us.  We  have  so  much  money 
that  we  will  not  be  allowed  to  disappoint  the  public. 
Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  kind  of  a  man  I  could 
love,  Sis?" 

"  Go  on,  you  scatterbrain,"  smiled  the  other. 

*'  I  could  love  a  man  with  dark  and  kind  blue  eyes, 
who  is  gentle  and  respectful  to  poor  girls,  who  is 
handsome  and  good  and  does  not  try  to  flirt.  But 
I  could  love  him  only  if  he  had  an  ambition,  an 
object,  some  work  to  do  in  the  world.  I  would  not 
care  how  poor  he  was  if  I  could  help  him  build  his 
way  up.  But,  sister  dear,  the  kind  of  man  we  always 
meet  —  the  man  who  lives  an  idle  life  between  society 
and  his  clubs  —  I  could  not  love  a  man  like  that,  even 
if  his  eyes  were  blue  and  he  were  ever  so  kind  to  poor 
girls  whom  he  met  in  the  street." 


IT  was  neither  the  season  nor  the  hour  when  the 
Park  had  frequenters ;  and  it  is  likely  that  the  young 
lady,  who  was  seated  on  one  of  the  benches  at  the 
side  of  the  walk,  had  merely  obeyed  a  sudden  im 
pulse  to  sit  for  a  while  and  enjoy  a  foretaste  of  com 
ing  Spring. 

She  rested  there,  pensive  and  still.  A  certain  mel 
ancholy  that  touched  her  countenance  must  have  been 
of  recent  birth,  for  it  had  not  yet  altered  the  fine  and 
youthful  contours  of  her  cheek,  nor  subdued  the  arch 
though  resolute  curve  of  her  lips. 

A  tall  young  man  came  striding  through  the  park 
along  the  path  near  which  she  sat.  Behind  him 
tagged  a  boy  carrying  a  suit-case.  At  sight  of  the 
young  lady,  the  man's  face  changed  to  red  and  back 
to  pale  again.  He  watched  her  countenance  as  he 
drew  nearer,  with  hope  and  anxiety  mingled  on  his 
own.  He  passed  within  a  few  yards  of  her,  but  he 
saw  no  evidence  that  she  was  aware  of  his  presence 
or  existence. 

Some  fifty  yards  further  on  he  suddenly  stopped 


By  Courier  233 

and  sat  on  a  bench  at  one  side.  The  boy  dropped 
the  suit-case  and  stared  at  him  with  wondering, 
shrewd  eyes.  The  young  man  took  out  his  handker 
chief  and  wiped  his  brow.  It  was  a  good  handker 
chief,  a  good  brow,  and  the  young  man  was  good  to 
look  at.  He  said  to  the  boy: 

"  I  want  you  to  take  a  message  to  that  young 
lady  on  that  bench.  Tell  her  I  am  on  my  way  to  the 
station,  to  leave  for  San  Francisco,  where  I  shall  join 
that  Alaska  moose-hunting  expedition.  Tell  her 
that,  since  she  has  commanded  me  neither  to  speak 
nor  to  write  to  her,  I  take  this  means  of  making  one 
last  appeal  to  her  sense  of  justice,  for  the  sake  of 
what  has  been.  Tell  her  that  to  condemn  and  dis 
card  one  who  has  not  deserved  such  treatment,  with 
out  giving  him  her  reasons  or  a  chance  to  explain 
is  contrary  to  her  nature  as  I  believe  it  to  be.  Tell 
her  that  I  have  thus,  to  a  certain  degree,  disobeyed 
her  injunctions,  in  the  hope  that  she  may  yet  be 
inclined  to  see  justice  done.  Go,  and  tell  her  that." 

The  young  man  dropped  a  half-dollar  into  the 
boy's  hand.  The  boy  looked  at  him  for  a  moment 
with  bright,  canny  eyes  out  of  a  dirty,  intelligent 
face,  and  then  set  off  at  a  run.  He  approached  the 
lady  on  the  bench  a  little  doubtfully,  but  unembar 
rassed.  He  touched  the  brim  of  the  old  plaid  bicycle 


234  The  Four  Million 

cap  perched  on  the  back  of  his  head.  The  lady 
looked  at  him  coolly,  without  prejudice  or  favour. 

"  Lady,"  he  said,  "  dat  gent  on  de  oder  bench  sent 
yer  a  song  and  dance  by  me.  If  yer  don't  know  de 
guy,  and  he's  tryin'  to  do  de  Johnny  act,  say  de 
word,  and  I'll  call  a  cop  in  free  minutes.  If  yer  does 
know  him,  and  he's  on  de  square,  w'y  I'll  spiel  yer  de 
bunch  of  hot  air  he  sent  yer." 

The  young  lady  betrayed  a  faint  interest. 

"  A  song  and  dance ! "  she  said,  in  a  deliberate, 
sweet  voice  that  seemed  to  clothe  her  words  in  a 
diaphanous  garment  of  impalpable  irony.  "  A  new 
idea  —  in  the  troubadour  line,  I  suppose.  I  —  used 
to  know  the  gentleman  who  sent  you,  so  I  think  it  will 
hardly  be  necessary  to  call  the  police.  You  may 
execute  your  song  and  dance,  but  do  not  sing  too 
loudly.  It  is  a  little  early  yet  for  open-air  vaude 
ville,  and  we  might  attract  attention." 

"  Awe,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  shrug  down  the  length 
of  him,  "  yer  know  what  I  mean,  lady.  'Tain't  a 
turn,  it's  wind.  He  told  me  to  tell  yer  he's  got  his 
collars  and  cuffs  in  dat  grip  for  a  scoot  clean  out  to 
'Frisco.  Den  he's  goin'  to  shoot  snow-birds  in  de 
Klondike.  He  says  yer  told  him  not  to  send  'round 
no  more  pink  notes  nor  come  hangin'  over  de  garden 
gate,  and  he  takes  dis  means  of  puttin'  yer  wise. 


By  Courier  235 

He  says  yer  refereed  him  out  like  a  has-been,  and 
never  give  him  no  chance  to  kick  at  de  decision.  He 
says  yer  swiped  him,  and  never  said  why." 

The  slightly  awakened  interest  in  the  young  lady's 
eyes  did  not  abate.  Perhaps  it  was  caused  by  either 
the  originality  or  the  audacity  of  the  snow-bird 
hunter,  in  thus  circumventing  her  express  commands 
against  the  ordinary  modes  of  communication.  She 
fixed  her  eye  on  a  statue  standing  disconsolate  in  the 
dishevelled  park,  and  spoke  into  the  transmitter : 

"  Tell  the  gentleman  that  I  need  not  repeat  to  him 
a  description  of  my  ideals.  He  knows  what  they 
have  been  and  what  they  still  are.  So  far  as  they 
touch  on  this  case,  absolute  loyalty  and  truth  are 
the  ones  paramount.  Tell  him  that  I  have  studied 
my  own  heart  as  well  as  one  can,  and  I  know  its 
weakness  as  well  as  I  do  its  needs.  That  is  why  I 
decline  to  hear  his  pleas,  whatever  they  may  be.  I 
did  not  condemn  him  through  hearsay  or  doubtful 
evidence,  and  that  is  why  I  made  no  charge.  But, 
since  he  persists  in  hearing  what  he  already  well 
knows,  you  may  convey  the  matter. 

"  Tell  him  that  I  entered  the  conservatory  that 
evening  from  the  rear,  to  cut  a  rose  for  my  mother. 
Tell  him  I  saw  him  and  Miss  Ashburton  beneath  the 
pink  oleander.  The  tableau  was  pretty,  but  the  pose 


236  The  Four  Million 

and  juxtaposition  were  too  eloquent  and  evident  to 
require  explanation.  I  left  the  conservatory,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  the  rose  and  my  ideal.  You  may  carry 
that  song  and  dance  to  your  impresario." 

"  I'm  shy  on  one  word,  lady.  Jux  —  jux  —  put 
me  wise  on  dat,  will  yer  ?  " 

"  Juxtaposition  —  or  you  may  call  it  propinquity 
—  or,  if  you  like,  being  rather  too  near  for  one  main 
taining  the  position  of  an  ideal." 

The  gravel  spun  from  beneath  the  boy's  feet.  He 
stood  by  the  other  bench.  The  man's  eyes  interro 
gated  him,  hungrily.  The  boy's  were  shining  with 
the  impersonal  zeal  of  the  translator. 

"  De  lady  says  dat  she's  on  to  de  fact  dat  gals 
is  dead  easy  when  a  feller  comes  spielin'  ghost  stories 
and  tryin'  to  make  up,  and  dat's  why  she  won't  listen 
to  no  soft-soap.  She  says  she  caught  yer  dead  to 
rights,  huggin'  a  bunch  o'  calico  in  de  hot-house. 
She  side-stepped  in  to  pull  some  posies  and  }Ter  was 
squeezin'  de  oder  gal  to  beat  de  band.  She  says  it 
looked  cute,  all  right  all  right,  but  it  made  her  sick. 
She  says  yer  better  git  busy,  and  make  a  sneak  for 
de  train." 

The  young  man  gave  a  low  whistle  and  his  eyes 
flashed  with  a  sudden  thought.  His  hand  flew  to  the 
inside  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  drew  out  a  handful  of 


By  Courier  237 

letters.  Selecting  one,  he  handed  it  to  the  boy,  fol 
lowing  it  with  a  silver  dollar  from  his  vest-pocket. 

"  Give  that  letter  to  the  lady,"  he  said,  "  and  ask 
her  to  read  it.  Tell  her  that  it  should  explain  the 
situation.  Tell  her  that,  if  she  had  mingled  a  little 
trust  with  her  conception  of  the  ideal,  much  heart 
ache  might  have  been  avoided.  Tell  her  that  the 
loyalty  she  prizes  so  much  has  never  wavered.  Tell 
her  I  am  waiting  for  an  answer." 

The  messenger  stood  before  the  lady. 

"  De  gent  says  he's  had  de  ski-bunk  put  on  him 
widout  no  cause.  He  says  he's  no  bum  guy;  and, 
lady,  yer  read  dat  letter,  and  I'll  bet  yer  he's  a  white 
sport,  all  right." 

The  young  lady  unfolded  the  letter,  somewhat 
doubtfully,  and  read  it. 

DEAR  DR.  ARNOLD  :  I  want  to  thank  you  for  your 
most  kind  and  opportune  aid  to  my  daughter  last 
Friday  evening,  when  she  was  overcome  by  an  attack 
of  her  old  heart-trouble  in  the  conservatory  at  Mrs. 
Waldron's  reception.  Had  you  not  been  near  to 
catch  her  as  she  fell  and  to  render  proper  attention, 
we  might  have  lost  her.  I  would  be  glad  if  you 
would  call  and  undertake  the  treatment  of  her  case. 
Gratefully  yours, 

ROBERT  ASHBTTRTON. 


238  The  Four  Million 

The  young  lady  refolded  the  letter,  and  handed  it 
to  the  boy. 

"  De  gent  wants  an  answer,"  said  the  messenger. 
"Wot's  de  word?" 

The  lady's  eyes  suddenly  flashed  on  him,  bright, 
smiling  and  wet. 

"  Tell  that  guy  on  the  other  bench,"  she  said,  with 
a  happy,  tremulous  laugh,  "  that  hi*  girl  wanta 
him." 


THE   FURNISHED  ROOM 

JtvESTLESS,  shifting,  fugacious  as  time  itself  is  a 
certain  vast  bulk  of  the  population  of  the  red  brick 
district  of  the  lower  West  Side.  Homeless,  they 
have  a  hundred  homes.  They  flit  from  furnished 
room  to  furnished  room,  transients  forever  —  tran 
sients  in  abode,  transients  in  heart  and  mind.  They 
sing  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  in  ragtime ;  they  carry 
their  lares  et  jwnates  in  a  bandbox;  their  vine  is  en 
twined  about  a  picture  hat;  a  rubber  plant  is  their 
fig  tree. 

Hence  the  houses  of  this  district,  having  had  a 
thousand  dwellers,  should  have  a  thousand  tales  to 
tell,  mostly  dull  ones,  no  doubt;  but  it  would  be 
strange  if  there  could  not  be  found  a  ghost  or  two 
in  the  wake  of  all  these  vagrant  guests. 

One  evening  after  dark  a  young  man  prowled 
among  these  crumbling  red  mansions,  ringing  their 
bells.  At  the  twelfth  he  rested  his  lean  hand-bag 
gage  upon  the  step  and  wiped  the  dust  from  his  hat 
band  and  forehead.  The  bell  sounded  faint  and  far 
away  in  some  remote,  hollow  depths. 

239 


240  The  Four  Million 

To  the  door  of  this,  the  twelfth  house  whose  bell 
he  had  rung,  came  a  housekeeper  who  made  him 
think  of  an  unwholesome,  surfeited  worm  that  had 
eaten  its  nut  to  a  hollow  shell  and  now  sought  to  fill 
the  vacancy  with  edible  lodgers. 

He  asked  if  there  was  a  room  to  let. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  housekeeper.  Her  voice  came 
from  her  throat;  her  throat  seemed  lined  with  fur. 
"  I  have  the  third  floor  back,  vacant  since  a  week 
back.  Should  you  wish  to  look  at  it  ?  " 

The  young  man  followed  her  up  the  stairs.  A 
faint  light  from  no  particular  source  mitigated  the 
shadows  of  the  halls.  They  trod  noiselessly  upon  a 
stair  carpet  that  its  own  loom  would  have  forsworn. 
It  seemed  to  have  become  vegetable;  to  have  degen 
erated  in  that  rank,  sunless  air  to  lush  lichen  or 
spreading  moss  that  grew  in  patches  to  the  stair 
case  and  was  viscid  under  the  foot  like  organic  mat 
ter.  At  each  turn  of  the  stairs  were  vacant  niches 
in  the  wall.  Perhaps  plants  had  once  been  set  within 
them.  If  so  they  had  died  in  that  foul  and  tainted 
air.  It  may  be  that  statues  of  the  saints  had  stood 
there,  but  it  was  not  difficult  to  conceive  that  imps 
and  devils  had  dragged  them  forth  in  the  darkness 
and  down  to  the  unholy  depths  of  some  furnished  j>it 
below. 


The  Furnished  Room  241 

"  This  is  the  room,"  said  the  housekeeper,  from  her 
furry  throat.  "  It's  a  nice  room.  It  ain't  often 
vacant.  I  had  some  most  elegant  people  in  it  last 
summer  —  no  trouble  at  all,  and  paid  in  advance  to 
the  minute.  The  water's  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 
Sprowls  and  Mooney  kept  it  three  months.  They 
done  a  vaudeville  sketch.  Miss  B'retta  Sprowls  — > 
jou  may  have  heard  of  her — Oh,  that  was  just  the 
stage  names  —  right  there  over  the  dresser  is  where 
the  marriage  certificate  hung,  framed.  The  gas  is 
here,  and  you  see  there  is  plenty  of  closet  room.  It's 
a  room  everybody  likes.  It  never  stays  idle  long." 

"  Do  you  have  many  theatrical  people  rooming 
here  ?  "  asked  the  young  man. 

"  They  comes  and  goes.  A  good  proportion  of 
my  lodgers  is  connected  with  the  theatres.  Yes,  sir, 
this  is  the  theatrical  district.  Actor  people  never 
stays  long  anywhere.  I  get  my  share.  Yes,  they 
comes  and  they  goes." 

He  engaged  the  room,  paying  for  a  week  in  ad 
vance.  He  was  tired,  he  said,  and  would  take  pos 
session  at  once.  He  counted  out  the  money.  The 
room  had  been  made  ready,  she  said,  even  to  towels 
and  water.  As  the  housekeeper  moved  away  he  put, 
for  the  thousandth  time,  the  question  that  he  carried 
at  the  end  of  his  tongue. 


242  The  Four  Million 

"  A  young-  girl  —  Miss  Vashner  —  Miss  Eloise 
Vashner  —  do  you  remember  such  a  one  among  your 
lodgers?  She  would  be  singing  on  the  stage,  most 
likely.  A  fair  girl,  of  medium  height  and  slender, 
with  reddish,  gold  hair  and  a  dark  mole  near  her 
left  eyebrow." 

"  No,  I  don't  remember  the  name.  Them  stage 
people  has  names  they  change  as  often  as  their 
rooms.  They  comes  and  they  goes.  No,  I  don't 
call  that  one  to  mind." 

No.  Always  no.  Five  months  of  ceaseless  inter 
rogation  and  the  inevitable  negative.  So  much  time 
spent  by  day  in  questioning  managers,  agents, 
schools  and  choruses ;  by  night  among  the  audiences 
of  theatres  from  all-star  casts  down  to  music  halls  so 
low  that  he  dreaded  to  find  what  he  most  hoped  for. 
He  who  had  loved  her  best  had  tried  to  find  her. 
He  was  sure  that  since  her  disappearance  from  home 
this  great,  water-girt  city  held  her  somewhere,  but  it 
was  like  a  monstrous  quicksand,  shifting  its  par 
ticles  constantly,  with  no  foundation,  its  upper 
granules  of  to-day  buried  to-morrow  in  ooze  and 
slime. 

The  furnished  room  received  its  latest  guest  with 
a  first  glow  of  pseudo-hospitality,  a  hectic,  hag 
gard,  perfunctory  welcome  like  the  specious  smile  of 


The  Furnished  Room  243 

a  demirep.  The  sophistical  comfort  came  in  re 
flected  gleams  from  the  decayed  furniture,  the  ragged 
brocade  upholstery  of  a  couch  and  two  chairs,  a  foot- 
wide  cheap  pier  glass  between  the  two  windows,  from 
one  or  two  gilt  picture  frames  and  a  brass  bedstead 
in  a  corner. 

The  guest  reclined,  inert,  upon  a  chair,  while  the 
room,  confused  in  speech  as  though  it  were  an  apart 
ment  in  Babel,  tried  to  discourse  to  him  of  its  divers 
tenantry. 

A  polychromatic  rug  like  some  brilliant-flowered 
rectangular,  tropical  islet  lay  surrounded  by  a  bil 
lowy  sea  of  soiled  matting.  Upon  the  gay-papered 
wall  were  those  pictures  that  pursue  the  homeless 
one  from  house  to  house  —  The  Huguenot  Lovers, 
The  First  Quarrel,  The  Wedding  Breakfast,  Psyche 
at  the  Fountain.  The  mantel's  chastely  severe  out 
line  was  ingloriously  veiled  behind  some  pert  drapery 
drawn  rakishly  askew  like  the  sashes  of  the  Ama 
zonian  ballet.  Upon  it  was  some  desolate  flotsam 
cast  aside  by  the  room's  marooned  when  a  lucky 
sail  had  borne  them  to  a  fresh  port  —  a  trifling  vase 
or  two,  pictures  of  actresses,  a  medicine  bottle,  some 
stray  cards  out  of  a  deck. 

One  by  one,  as  the  characters  of  a  cryptograph 
become  explicit,  the  little  signs  left  by  the  furnished 


244  The  Four  Million 

room's  procession  of  guests  developed  a  significance. 
The  threadbare  space  in  the  rug  in  front  of  the 
Dresser  told  that  lovely  woman  had  marched  in  the 
throng.  Tiny  finger  prints  on  the  wall  spoke  of 
little  prisoners  trying  to  feel  their  way  to  sun  and 
air.  A  splattered  stain,  raying  like  the  shadow  of 
a  bursting  bomb,  witnessed  where  a  hurled  glass  or 
bottle  had  splintered  with  its  contents  against  the 
wall.  Across  the  pier  glass  had  been  scrawled  with 
a  diamond  in  staggering  letters  the  name  "  Marie." 
It  seemed  that  the  succession  of  dwellers  in  the  fur 
nished  room  had  turned  in  fury  —  perhaps  tempted 
beyond  forbearance  by  its  garish  coldness  —  and 
wreaked  upon  it  their  passions.  The  furniture  was 
chipped  and  bruised ;  the  couch,  distorted  by  bursting 
springs,  seemed  a  horrible  monster  that  had  been 
slain  during  the  stress  of  some  grotesque  convul 
sion.  Some  more  potent  upheaval  had  cloven  a  great 
slice  from  the  marble  mantel.  Each  plank  in  the 
floor  owned  its  particular  cant  and  shriek  as  from  a 
separate  and  individual  agony.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  all  this  malice  and  injury  had  been  wrought 
upon  the  room  by  those  who  had  called  it  for  a  time 
their  home;  and  yet  it  may  have  been  the  cheated 
home  instinct  surviving  blindly,  the  resentful  rage  at 
false  household  gods  that  had  kindled  their  wrath. 


The  Furnished  Room  245 

A  hut  that  is  our  own  we  can  sweep  and  adorn  and 
cherish. 

The  young  tenant  in  the  chair  allowed  these 
thoughts  to  file,  soft-shod,  through  his  mind,  while 
there  drifted  into  the  room  furnished  sounds  and 
furnished  scents.  He  heard  in  one  room  a  tittering 
and  incontinent,  slack  laughter;  in  others  the  mono 
logue  of  a  scold,  the  rattling  of  dice,  a  lullaby,  and 
one  crying  dully;  above  him  a  banjo  tinkled  with 
spirit.  Doors  banged  somewhere;  the  elevated  trains 
roared  intermittently;  a  cat  yowled  miserably  upon 
a  back  fence.  And  he  breathed  the  breath  of  the 
house  —  a  dank  savour  rather  than  a  smell  —  a  cold, 
musty  effluvium  as  from  underground  vaults  mingled 
with  the  reeking  exhalations  of  linoleum  and  mil 
dewed  and  rotten  woodwork. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  he  rested  there,  the  room  was 
filled  with  the  strong,  sweet  odour  of  mignonette.  It 
came  as  upon  a  single  buffet  of  wind  with  such 
sureness  and  fragrance  and  emphasis  that  it  almost 
seemed  a  living  visitant.  And  the  man  cried  aloud: 
"  What,  dear?  "  as  if  he  had  been  called,  and  sprang 
up  and  faced  about.  The  rich  odour  clung  to  him 
and  wrapped  him  around.  He  reached  out  his  arms 
for  it,  all  his  senses  for  the  time  confused  and  com 
mingled.  How  could  one  be  peremptorily  called  by 


246  The  Four  Million 

an  odour?  Surely  it  must  have  been  a  sound.  But, 
was  it  not  the  sound  that  had  touched,  that  had 
caressed  him? 

"  She  has  been  in  this  room,"  he  cried,  and  he 
sprang  to  wrest  from  it  a  token,  for  he  knew  he 
would  recognise  the  smallest  thing  that  had  belonged 
to  her  or  that  she  had  touched.  This  enveloping 
scent  of  mignonette,  the  odour  that  she  had  loved 
and  made  her  own  —  whence  came  it? 

The  room  had  been  but  carelessly  set  in  order. 
Scattered  upon  the  flimsy  dresser  scarf  were  half  a 
dozen  hairpins  —  those  discreet,  indistinguishable 
friends  of  womankind,  feminine  of  gender,  infinite  of 
mood  and  uncommunicative  of  tense.  These  he 
ignored,  conscious  of  their  triumphant  lack  of  iden 
tity.  Ransacking  the  drawers  of  the  dresser  he  came 
upon  a  discarded,  tiny,  ragged  handkerchief.  He 
pressed  it  to  his  face.  It  was  racy  and  insolent  with 
heliotrope;  he  hurled  it  to  the  floor.  In  another 
drawer  he  found  odd  buttons,  a  theatre  programme, 
a  pawnbroker's  card,  two  lost  marshmallows,  a  book 
on  the  divination  of  dreams.  In  the  last  was  a 
woman's  black  satin  hair  bow,  which  halted  him, 
poised  between  ice  and  fire.  But  the  black  satin  hair- 
bow  also  is  femininity's  demure,  impersonal,  common 
ornament,  and  tells  no  tales. 


The  Furnished  Room  247 

And  then  he  traversed  the  room  like  a  hound  on 
the  scent,  skimming  the  walls,  considering  the  cor 
ners  of  the  bulging  matting  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
rummaging  mantel  and  tables,  the  curtains  and  hang 
ings,  the  drunken  cabinet  in  the  corner,  for  a  visible 
sign,  unable  to  perceive  that  she  was  there  beside, 
around,  against,  within,  above  him,  clinging  to  him, 
wooing  him,  calling  him  so  poignantly  through  the 
finer  senses  that  even  his  grosser  ones  became  cog 
nisant  of  the  call.  Once  again  he  answered  loudly: 
"  Yes,  dear ! "  and  turned,  wild-eyed,  to  gaze  on 
vacancy,  for  he  could  not  yet  discern  form  and  colour 
and  love  and  outstretched  arms  in  the  odour  of 
mignonette.  Oh,  God!  whence  that  odour,  and  since 
when  have  odours  had  a  voice  to  call?  Thus  he 
groped. 

He  burrowed  in  crevices  and  corners,  and  found 
corks  and  cigarettes.  These  he  passed  in  passive 
contempt.  But  once  he  found  in  a  fold  of  the  mat 
ting  a  half-smoked  cigar,  and  this  he  ground  be 
neath  his  heel  with  a  green  and  trenchant  oath.  He 
sifted  the  room  from  end  to  end.  He  found  dreary 
and  ignoble  small  records  of  many  a  peripatetic  ten 
ant;  but  of  her  whom  he  sought,  and  who  may  have 
lodged  there,  and  whose  spirit  seemed  to  hover  there, 
he  found  no  trace. 


248  The  Four  Million 

And  then  he  thought  of  the  housekeeper. 

He  ran  from  the  haunted  room  downstairs  and  to 
a  door  that  showed  a  crack  of  light.  She  came  out  to 
his  knock.  He  smothered  his  excitement  as  best  he 
could. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  madam,"  he  besought  her, 
"  who  occupied  the  room  I  have  before  I  came  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  can  tell  you  again.  'Twas  Sprowls 
and  Mooney,  as  I  said.  Miss  B'retta  Sprowls  it  was 
in  the  theatres,  but  Missis  Mooney  she  was.  My 
house  is  well  known  for  respectability.  The  mar 
riage  certificate  hung,  framed,  on  a  nail  over  — " 

"  What  kind  of  a  lady  was  Miss  Sprowls  —  in 
looks,  I  mean?  " 

"  Why,  black-haired,  sir,  short,  and  stout,  with  a 
comical  face.  They  left  a  week  ago  Tuesday." 

"  And  before  they  occupied  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  there  was  a  single  gentleman  connected 
with  the  draying  business.  He  left  owing  me  a  week. 
Before  him  was  Missis  Crowder  and  her  two  chil 
dren,  that  stayed  four  months;  and  back  of  them 
was  old  Mr.  Doyle,  whose  sons  paid  for  him.  He 
kept  the  room  six  months.  That  goes  back  a  year, 
sir,  and  further  I  do  not  remember." 

He  thanked  her  and  crept  back  to  his  room.  The 
room  was  dead.  The  essence  that  had  vivified  it  was 


The  Furnished  Room  249 

gone.  The  perfume  of  mignonette  had  departed. 
In  its  place  was  the  old,  stale  odour  of  mouldy  house 
furniture,  of  atmosphere  in  storage. 

The  ebbing  of  his  hope  drained  his  faith.  He  sat 
staring  at  the  yellow,  singing  gaslight.  Soon  he 
walked  to  the  bed  and  began  to  tear  the  sheets  into 
strips.  With  the  blade  of  his  knife  he  drove  them, 
tightly  into  every  crevice  around  windows  and  door. 
When  all  was  snug  and  taut  he  turned  out  the  light, 
turned  the  gas  full  on  again  and  laid  himself  grate 
fully  upon  the  bed. 

«  •  •  •  « 

It  was  Mrs.  McCool's  night  to  go  with  the  can 
for  beer.  So  she  fetched  it  and  sat  with  Mrs. 
Purdy  in  one  of  those  subterranean  retreats  where 
house-keepers  foregather  and  the  worm  dieth 
seldom. 

"  I  rented  out  my  third  floor,  back,  this  evening," 
said  Mrs.  Purdy,  across  a  fine  circle  of  foam.  "  A 
young  man  took  it.  He  went  up  to  bed  two  hours 
ago." 

"Now,  did  ye,  Mrs.  Purdy,  ma'am?"  said  Mrs. 
McCool,  with  intense  admiration.  "  You  do  be  a 
wonder  for  rentiii'  rooms  of  that  kind.  And  did  ye 
tell  him,  then  ?  "  she  concluded  in  a  husky  whisper, 
laden  with  mystery. 


250  The  Four  Million 

"  Rooms,"  said  Mrs.  Purdy,  in  her  furriest  tones, 
'*  are  furnished  for  to  rent.  I  did  not  tell  him,  Mrs. 
McCool." 

"  'Tis  right  ye  are,  ma'am ;  'tis  by  renting  rooms 
we  kape  alive.  Ye  have  the  rale  sense  for  business, 
ma'am.  There  be  many  people  will  rayjict  the  rent- 
in'  of  a  room  if  they  be  tould  a  suicide  has  been  after 
dyin'  in  the  bed  of  it." 

"  As  you  say,  we  has  our  living  to  be  making," 
remarked  Mrs.  Purdy. 

"  Yis,  ma'am;  'tis  true.  'Tis  just  one  wake  ago 
this  day  I  helped  ye  lay  out  the  third  floor,  back. 
A  pretty  slip  of  a  colleen  she  was  to  be  killin'  her 
self  wid  the  gas  —  a  swate  little  face  she  had,  Mrs. 
Purdy,  ma'am." 

"  She'd  a-been  called  handsome,  as  you  say,"  said 
Mrs.  Purdy,  assenting  but  critical,  "  but  for  that 
mole  she  had  a-growin'  by  her  left  eyebrow.  Do  fill 
up  your  glass  again,  Mrs.  McCool." 


THE  BRIEF  DEBUT  OF  TILDY 

IF  you  do  not  know  Bogle's  Chop  House  and 
Family  Restaurant  it  is  your  loss.  For  if  you 
are  one  of  the  fortunate  ones  who  dine  expen 
sively  you  should  be  interested  to  know  how  the  other 
half  consumes  provisions.  And  if  you  belong  to  the 
half  to  whom  waiters'  checks  are  things  of  moment, 
you  should  know  Bogle's,  for  there  you  get  your 
money's  worth  —  in  quantity,  at  least. 

Bogle's  is  situated  in  that  highway  of  bourgeoisie, 
that  boulevard  of  Brown- Jon es-and-Robinson,  Eighth 
Avenue.  There  are  two  rows  of  tables  in  the  room, 
six  in  each  row.  On  each  table  is  a  caster-stand,  con 
taining  cruets  of  condiments  and  seasons.  From  the 
pepper  cruet  you  may  shake  a  cloud  of  something 
tasteless  and  melancholy,  like  volcanic  dust.  From 
the  salt  cruet  you  may  expect  nothing.  Though  a 
man  should  extract  a  sanguinary  stream  from  the 
pallid  turnip,  yet  will  his  prowess  be  balked  when  he 
comes  to  wrest  salt  from  Bogle's  cruets.  Also  upon 
each  table  stands  the  counterfeit  of  that  benign 
sauce  made  "  from  the  recipe  of  a  nobleman  in 
India." 

251 


252  The  Four  Million 

At  the  cashier's  desk  sits  Bogle,  cold,  sordid,  slow, 
smouldering,  and  takes  your  money.  Behind  a  moun 
tain  of  toothpicks  he  makes  your  change,  files  your 
check,  and  ejects  at  you,  like  a  toad,  a  word  about 
the  ^eather.  Beyond  a  corroboration  of  his  meteor 
ological  statement  you  would  better  not  venture. 
You  are  not  Bogle's  friend;  you  are  a  fed,  transient 
customer,  and  you  and  he  may  not  meet  again  until 
the  blowing  of  Gabriel's  dinner  horn.  So  take  your 
change  and  go  —  to  the  devil  if  you  like.  There  you 
have  Bogle's  sentiments. 

The  needs  of  Bogle's  customers  were  supplied  by 
two  waitresses  and  a  Voice.  One  of  the  waitresses 
was  named  Aileen.  She  was  tall,  beautiful,  lively, 
gracious  and  learned  in  persiflage.  Her  other  name  ? 
There  was  no  more  necessity  for  another  name  at 
Bogle's  than  there  was  for  finger-bowls. 

The  name  of  the  other  waitress  was  Tildy.  Why 
do  you  suggest  Matilda?  Please  listen  this  time  — 
Tildy  —  Tildy.  Tildy  was  dumpy,  plain-faced,  and 
too  anxious  to  please  to  please.  Repeat  the  last 
clause  to  yourself  once  or  twice,  and  make  the  ac 
quaintance  of  the  duplicate  infinite. 

The  Voice  at  Bogle's  was  invisible.  It  came  from 
the  kitchen,  and  did  not  shine  in  the  way  of  origi 
nality.  It  was  a  heathen  Voice,  and  contented  itself 


The  Brief  Debut  of  Tildy          253 

with  vain  repetitions  of  exclamations  emitted  by  the 
waitresses  concerning  food. 

Will  it  tire  you  to  be  told  again  that  Aileen  was 
beautiful?  Had  she  donned  a  few  hundred  dollars' 
worth  of  clothes  and  joined  the  Easter  parade,  and 
had  you  seen  her,  you  would  have  hastened  to  say 
so  yourself. 

The  customers  at  Bogle's  were  her  slaves.  Six 
tables  full  she  could  wait  upon  at  once.  They  who 
were  in  a  hurry  restrained  their  impatience  for  the 
joy  of  merely  gazing  upon  her  swiftly  moving,  grace 
ful  figure.  They  who  had  finished  eating  ate  more 
that  they  might  continue  in  the  light  of  her  smiles. 
Every  man  there  —  and  they  were  mostly  men  — 
tried  to  make  his  impression  upon  her. 

Aileen  could  successfully  exchange  repartee 
against  a  dozen  at  once.  And  every  smile  that  she 
sent  forth  lodged,  like  pellets  from  a  scatter-gun,  in 
as  many  hearts.  And  all  this  while  she  would  be 
performing  astounding  feats  with  orders  of  pork  and 
beans,  pot  roasts,  ham-and,  sausage-and-the-wheats, 
and  any  quantity  of  things  on  the  iron  and  in  the 
pan  and  straight  up  and  on  the  side.  With  all  this 
feasting  and  flirting  and  merry  exchange  of  wit 
Bogle's  came  mighty  near  being  a  salon,  with  Aileen 
for  its  Madame  Recamier. 


254  The  Four  Million 

If  the  transients  were  entranced  by  the  fascinating 
Aileen,  the  regulars  were  her  adorers.  There  -was 
much  rivalry  among  many  of  the  steady  customers. 
Aileen  could  have  had  an  engagement  every  evening. 
At  least  twice  a  week  some  one  took  her  to  a  theatre 
or  to  a  dance.  One  stout  gentleman  whom  she  and 
Tildy  had  privately  christened  "  The  Hog "  pre 
sented  her  with  a  turquoise  ring.  Another  one  known 
as  "  Freshy,"  who  rode  on  the  Traction  Company's 
repair  wagon,  was  going  to  give  her  a  poodle  as 
soon  as  his  brother  got  the  hauling  contract  in  the 
Ninth.  And  the  man  who  always  ate  spareribs  and 
spinach  and  said  he  was  a  stock  broker  asked  her  to 
go  to  "  Parsifal  "  with  him. 

"  I  don't  know  where  this  place  is,"  said  Aileen 
while  talking  it  over  with  Tildy,  "  but  the  wedding- 
ring's  got  to  be  on  before  I  put  a  stitch  into  a  travel 
ling  dress  —  ain't  that  right?  Well,  I  guess!  " 

But,  Tildy! 

In  steaming,  chattering,  cabbage-scented  Bogle's 
there  was  almost  a  heart  tragedy.  Tildy  with  the 
blunt  nose,  the  hay-coloured  hair,  the  freckled  skin, 
the  bag-o'-meal  figure,  had  never  had  an  admirer. 
Not  a  man  followed  her  with  his  eyes  when  she  went 
to  and  fro  in  the  restaurant  save  now  and  then  when 
they  glared  with  the  beast-hunger  for  food.  None 


The  Brief  Debut  of  Tildy         255 

of  them  bantered  her  gaily  to  coquettish  interchanges 
of  wit.  None  of  them  loudly  "  jollied  "  her  of  morn 
ings  as  they  did  Aileen,  accusing  her,  when  the  eggs 
were  slow  in  coming,  of  late  hours  in  the  company 
of  envied  swains.  No  one  had  ever  given  her  a  tur 
quoise  ring  or  invited  her  upon  a  voyage  to  mysteri 
ous,  distant  "  Parsifal." 

Tildy  was  a  good  waitress,  and  the  men  tolerated 
her.  They  who  sat  at  her  tables  spoke  to  her  briefly 
with  quotations  from  the  bill  of  fare;  and  then  raised 
their  voices  in  honeyed  and  otherwise-flavoured  ac 
cents,  eloquently  addressed  to  the  fair  Aileen.  They 
writhed  in  their  chairs  to  gaze  around  and  over  the 
impending  form  of  Tildy,  that  Aileen's  pulchritude 
might  season  and  make  ambrosia  of  their  bacon  and 
eggs. 

And  Tildy  was  content  to  be  the  unwooed  drudge 
if  Aileen  could  receive  the  flattery  and  the  homage. 
The  blunt  nose  was  loyal  to  the  short  Grecian.  She 
was  Aileen's  friend;  and  she  was  glad  to  see  her  rule 
hearts  and  wean  the  attention  of  men  from  smoking 
pot-pie  and  lemon  meringue.  But  deep  below  our 
freckles  and  hay-coloured  hair  the  unhandsomest  of 
us  dream  of  a  prince  or  a  princess,  not  vicarious,  but 
coming  to  us  alone. 

There  was  a  morning  when  Aileen  tripped  in  to 


256  The  Four  Million 

work  with  a  slightly  bruised  eye;  and  Tildy's  solici 
tude  was  almost  enough  to  heal  any  optic. 

"  Fresh  guy,"  explained  Aileen,  "  last  night  as 
I  was  going  home  at  Twenty-third  and  Sixth. 
Sashayed  up,  so  he  did,  and  made  a  break.  I  turned 
him  down,  cold,  and  he  made  a  sneak;  but  followed 
me  down  to  Eighteenth,  and  tried  his  hot  air  again. 
Gee !  but  I  slapped  him  a  good  one,  side  of  the  face. 
Then  he  give  me  that  eye.  Does  it  look  real  awful, 
Til?  I  should  hate  that  Mr.  Nicholson  should  see 
it  when  he  comes  in  for  his  tea  and  toast  at  ten." 

Tildy  listened  to  the  adventure  with  breathless 
admiration.  No  man  had  ever  tried  to  follow  her. 
She  was  safe  abroad  at  any  hour  of  the  twenty-four. 
What  bliss  it  must  have  been  to  have  had  a  man  fol 
low  one  and  black  one's  eye  for  love ! 

Among  the  customers  at  Bogle's  was  a  young  man 
named  Seeders,  who  worked  in  a  laundry  office.  Mr. 
Seeders  was  thin  and  had  light  hair,  and  appeared  to 
have  been  recently  rough-dried  and  starched.  He 
was  too  diffident  to  aspire  to  Aileen's  notice;  so  he 
usually  sat  at  one  of  Tildy's  tables,  where  he  devoted 
himself  to  silence  and  boiled  weakfish. 

One  day  when  Mr.  Seeders  came  in  to  dinner  he 
had  been  drinking  beer.  There  were  only  two  or 
three  customers  in  the  restaurant.  When  Mr.  Seed- 


The  Brief  Debut  of  Tildy         257 

ers  had  finished  his  weakfish  he  got  up,  put  his  arm 
around  Tildy's  waist,  kissed  her  loudly  and  impu 
dently,  walked  out  upon  the  street,  snapped  his 
fingers  in  the  direction  of  the  laundry,  and  hied  him 
self  to  play  pennies  in  the  slot  machines  at  the  Amuse 
ment  Arcade. 

For  a  few  moments  Tildy  stood  petrified.  Then 
she  was  aware  of  Aileen  shaking  at  her  an  arch  fore 
finger,  and  saying: 

"  Why,  Til,  you  naughty  girl !  Ain't  you  getting 
to  be  awful,  Miss  Slyboots !  First  thing  I  know 
you'll  be  stealing  some  of  my  fellows.  I  must  keep 
an  eye  on  you,  my  lady." 

Another  thing  dawned  upon  Tildy's  recovering 
wits.  In  a  moment  she  had  advanced  from  a  hope 
less,  lowly  admirer  to  be  an  Eve-sister  of  the  potent 
Aileen.  She  herself  was  now  a  man-charmer,  a  mark 
for  Cupid,  a  Sabine  who  must  be  coy  when  the 
Romans  were  at  their  banquet  boards.  Man  had 
found  her  waist  achievable  and  her  lips  desirable. 
The  sudden  and  amatory  Seeders  had,  as  it  were,  per 
formed  for  her  a  miraculous  piece  of  one-day  laundry 
work.  He  had  taken  the  sackcloth  of  her  uncome- 
liness,  had  washed,  dried,  starched  and  ironed  it,  and 
returned  it  to  her  sheer  embroidered  lawn  —  the  robe 
of  Venus  herself. 


258  The  Four  Million 

The  freckles  on  Tildy's  cheeks  merged  into  a  rosy 
flush.  Now  both  Circe  and  Psyche  peeped  from  her 
brightened  eyes.  Not  even  Aileen  herself  had  been 
publicly  embraced  and  kissed  in  the  restaurant. 

Tildy  could  not  keep  the  delightful  secret.  When? 
trade  was  slack  she  went  and  stood  at  Bogle's  desk. 
Her  eyes  were  shining ;  she  tried  not  to  let  her  words 
sound  proud  and  boastful. 

"  A  gentleman  insulted  me  to-day,"  she  said.  "  He 
hugged  me  around  the  waist  and  kissed  me." 

"  That  so?  "  said  Bogle,  cracking  open  his  busi 
ness  armour.  "  After  this  week  you  get  a  dollar  a 
week  more." 

At  the  next  regular  meal  when  Tildy  set  food  be 
fore  customers  with  whom  she  had  acquaintance  she 
said  to  each  of  them  modestly,  as  one  whose  merit 
needed  no  bolstering: 

"  A  gentleman  insulted  me  to-day  in  the  restau 
rant.  He  put  his  arm  around  my  waist  and  kissed 
me." 

The  diners  accepted  the  revelation  in  various  ways 
—  some  incredulously,  some  with  congratulations ; 
others  turned  upon  her  the  stream  of  badinage  that 
had  hitherto  been  directed  at  Aileen  alone.  And 
Tildy's  heart  swelled  in  her  bosom,  for  she  saw  at 
last  the  towers  of  Romance  rise  above  the  horizon 


The  Brief  Debut  of  Tildij          259 

of  the  grey  plain  in  which  she  had  for  so  long 
travelled. 

For  two  days  Mr.  Seeders  came  not  again.  Dur 
ing  that  time  Tildy  established  herself  firmly  as  a 
woman  to  be  wooed.  She  bought  ribbons,  and  ar 
ranged  her  hair  like  Aileen's,  and  tightened  her 
waist  two  inches.  She  had  a  thrilling  but  delightful 
fear  that  Mr.  Seeders  would  rush  in  suddenly  and 
shoot  her  with  a  pistol.  He  must  have  loved  her  des 
perately;  and  impulsive  lovers  are  always  blindly 
jealous. 

Even  Aileen  had  not  been  shot  at  with  a  pistol. 
And  then  Tildy  rather  hoped  that  he  would  not  shoot 
at  her,  for  she  was  always  loyal  to  Aileen;  and  she 
did  not  want  to  overshadow  her  friend. 

At  4<  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  Mr. 
Seeders  came  in.  There  were  no  customers  at  the 
tables.  At  the  back  end  of  the  restaurant  Tildy  was 
refilling  the  mustard  pots  and  Aileen  was  quartering 
pies.  Mr.  Seeders  walked  back  to  where  they  stood. 

Tildy  looked  up  and  saw  him,  gasped,  and  pressed 
the  mustard  spoon  against  her  heart.  A  red  hair- 
bow  was  in  her  hair ;  she  wore  Venus's  Eighth  Avenue 
badge,  the  blue  bead  necklace  with  the  swinging  silver 
symbolic  heart. 

Mr.    Seeders   was   flushed   and   embarrassed.     He 


260  The  Four  Million 

plunged  one  hand  into  his  hip  pocket  and  the  other 
into  a  fresh  pumpkin  pie. 

"  Miss  Tildy,"  said  he,  "  I  want  to  apologise  for 
what  I  done  the  other  evenin'.  Tell  you  the  truth,  I 
was  pretty  well  tanked  up  or  I  wouldn't  of  done  it. 
I  wouldn't  do  no  lady  that  a-way  when  I  was  sober. 
So  I  hope,  Miss  Tildy,  you'll  accept  my  'pology,  and 
believe  that  I  wouldn't  of  done  it  if  I'd  known  what 
I  was  doin'  and  hadn't  of  been  drunk." 

With  this  handsome  plea  Mr.  Seeders  backed  away, 
and  departed,  feeling  that  reparation  had  been  made. 

But  behind  the  convenient  screen  Tildy  had  thrown 
herself  flat  upon  a  table  among  the  butter  chips  and 
the  coffee  cups,  and  was  sobbing  her  heart  out  —  out 
and  back  again  to  the  grey  plain  wherein  travel  they 
with  blunt  noses  and  hay-coloured  hair.  From  her 
knot  she  had  torn  the  red  hair-bow  and  cast  it  upon 
the  floor.  Seeders  she  despised  utterly;  she  had  but 
taken  his  kiss  as  that  of  a  pioneer  and  prophetic 
prince  who  might  have  set  the  clocks  going  and  the 
pages  to  running  in  fairyland.  But  the  kiss  had 
been  maudlin  and  unmeant ;  the  court  had  not  stirred 
at  the  false  alarm;  she  must  forevermore  remain  the 
Sleeping  Beauty. 

Yet  not  all  was  lost.     Aileen's   arm  was   around 


The  Brief  Debut  of  Tilciy         261 

her;  and  Tildy's  red  hand  groped  among  the  butter 
chips  till  it  found  the  warm  clasp  of  her  friend's. 

"  Don't  you  fret,  Til,"  said  Aileen,  who  did  not 
understand  entirely.  "  That  turnip-faced  little 
clothespin  of  a  Seeders  ain't  worth  it.  He  ain't  any 
thing  of  a  gentleman  or  he  wouldn't  ever*  of  apolo 
gised." 


THE   END 


THE   COUNTRY   LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN    CITT,   N.  T. 


A    001424971    8 


